The Doctor’s Doorway

“Sometimes the line between healer and conspirator is only a question whispered too loudly in the wrong room.”

Watching Dr. Glenda De Bruyn as she threaded her way through the scattered chairs to the front of the Hobart Family Doctor's Practice, I felt that familiar tightening in my stomach—an anxious knot pulling itself taut. Her presence should have been reassuring, but instead it underscored the reason I was here: a search for answers I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to hear.

Jamie's infection was worsening, and without proper medical intervention—antibiotics, professional care, someone who actually knew what they were doing—he could die. I'd seen wounds go septic before, in documentaries and medical dramas that had seemed safely fictional until now. The reality was less dramatic but more terrifying: just a slow progression of redness spreading across skin, fever building, flesh dying centimetre by centimetre.

Glenda was my best option. Perhaps my only option. A doctor who knew me, who had treated me before, who might—if I played this correctly—be willing to help without asking too many questions.

The waiting room hummed with the low murmur of whispered conversations, punctuated by the occasional cough or wet sneeze. It was a symphony of human frailty, each sound another reminder of the vulnerability we all shared. The sterile cream walls, dulled by years of indifferent stares and routine appointments, seemed to inch closer around me, as though conspiring with the antiseptic sting in the air and the faint musk of worn-out upholstery to press me into the fabric of my chair.

I'd been in this waiting room before. It had always felt innocuous, just another bland space where you killed time before someone in a white coat told you things you probably already knew. Now it felt different. Now every surface seemed to watch me, every creak of plastic chairs seemed to announce my presence, every glance from the receptionist seemed weighted with suspicion.

The clock mounted above the reception desk ticked forward with merciless regularity, its rhythm syncing with the hammering of my own heart. Each second marked the passage of time with a steady insistence, dragging me further into a fog of anticipation. At 4:30 pm, with the sunlight beginning to slant low through the blinds, striping the walls in long shadows, Dr. De Bruyn's appearance ought to have been a comfort. Yet her lateness, her weary steps, only wound the coil of tension tighter inside me.

"Clyde Thompson," she called, her voice cutting cleanly across the subdued chatter. Professional, yes, but frayed at the edges, touched by a fatigue she couldn't quite disguise.

I slumped further into my chair, the upholstery groaning as though mirroring my frustration. "Shit," I muttered under my breath. The word was quiet, but to me it rang loud, a curse against the uncertainty clawing at me. It wasn't just the delay; it was the limbo, the not knowing, that was eating me alive. Every minute I sat here was another minute Jamie spent in Clivilius with an infection that was winning its slow war against his body.

With a sigh of resignation, I reached across to the magazine left abandoned on the adjacent seat. Its glossy cover was creased and stained, its pages dog-eared by countless other hands that had waited here before me. I flicked through absently, my eyes skimming over celebrity scandals and hollow headlines. Faces smiled back at me in frozen glamour, their trivial dramas a jarring contrast to the gravity of the storm in my own head.

What would these people think, I wondered, if they knew what I was carrying? Not just the Portal Key in my pocket, but the weight of knowledge that would shatter their understanding of reality. That there was another dimension, accessible through doorways of light. That a murder had been committed in my driveway this morning. That I was sitting here planning to recruit a doctor into a conspiracy that spanned worlds.

The words blurred into nothing more than noise, a meaningless collage that failed to distract me from the questions circling endlessly within.

As minutes trickled by, each one felt swollen and stretched, longer than the last. My eyes crept back to the clock mounted high on the wall, its hands now edging towards 4:35 pm. The ticking, faint at first, seemed to grow louder with every second, until it felt like a metronome hammering directly inside my skull.

"Shit," I whispered again, the word escaping almost without thought, a weary mantra muttered to keep myself tethered. My foot began tapping an erratic rhythm against the linoleum, a nervous beat that betrayed the storm beneath my calm façade. The room itself—those beige walls, the cheap plastic chairs, the fluorescent buzz—tightened around me like a cage. I was trapped, suspended in the no-man's-land of waiting, where minutes became hours and every shift in the air seemed pregnant with meaning.

Faces around me blurred into anonymous masks, yet I found my gaze darting from one to the next with involuntary suspicion. The man in the grey jacket, leafing absently through his phone—was he actually scrolling, or watching me from the corner of his eye? The older woman who kept dabbing at her nose with a tissue—did she really have a cold, or was she stalling for something else?

Ridiculous thoughts, I tried to tell myself. Ordinary people, doing ordinary things. But Joel's death had shifted something inside me. I couldn't help but wonder if eyes were on me everywhere, invisible threads of scrutiny tightening around my shoulders. Someone had killed Joel. Someone who knew about the Portal, or at least knew enough to silence a witness. That someone could be anywhere. Could be anyone.

Another twelve minutes dragged their heels across the sterile air, each second a heavy tick reverberating like a warning bell. My stomach clenched, my fingers drummed against the magazine in my lap, every tiny noise in the room amplified, each cough or shuffle a disruption to my already frayed nerves.

Then—movement. My focus snapped back to Dr. De Bruyn as she approached the front reception desk. Her steps were unhurried, every movement purposeful. I watched the receptionist hand her a new medical file, the glossy manila folder changing hands like a passing of judgement. My chest tightened.

Hope flickered—sharp and bright, painful in its suddenness. I straightened in my chair, my spine stiff, muscles coiled like springs. Every fibre of me leaned forward into the moment, silently begging, willing my name to be the next to leave her lips.

"Luke Smith," she announced, her voice clear but frayed with fatigue, the edges softened by long hours and endless demands.

Our eyes met. It was only the briefest glance, yet something passed between us—an unspoken recognition of strain, of battles fought in silence. She looked tired. More than tired—exhausted in a way that seemed to go beyond the ordinary demands of a busy medical practice. The raw, red rims of her eyes told their own story, whispering of sleepless nights, of burdens carried alone.

I rose quickly, propelled not just by eagerness but by the pressing weight of what had brought me here. My pulse thudded at my temples, my footsteps quick and uneven as I threaded through the narrow spaces between chairs and the lingering presence of other patients. Each step felt heavy, as if the floor itself resisted me, reminding me of the gravity of what I was carrying.

"This way, please," Dr. De Bruyn said as I reached her, her tone professional, measured, though undercut by a tiredness she didn't bother to mask. She gestured, leading me down the short hall. Her hand movements were economical, but behind that discipline I sensed a woman running on dwindling reserves.

Crossing into the small medical room, I felt it close around me. Four plain walls, a desk, the faint medicinal tang clinging to the air—it was both sanctuary and cell. A place of healing, yet confining in its intimacy. She shut the door gently behind us, the soft click reverberating like the sealing of a vault.

"Take a seat." The directive was polite, but it carried the authority of someone accustomed to compliance. I obeyed, lowering myself into the visitor's chair, acutely aware of its hardness beneath me, the squeak of its metal legs scratching faintly against the lino.

Now up close, I studied her face. The exhaustion carved into her features had a name, I suspected—or perhaps many names. The Fox Order. The Testing. The virus that was spreading through Tasmania in ways the public didn't yet understand. I'd heard whispers during my brief work with the NGO, names dropped in hushed conversations, connections hinted at but never confirmed.

For a heartbeat, empathy surged in me—a reflex of the part of myself that still reached instinctively for human connection, even as my world shrank under the weight of darker concerns. I wanted to ask if she was alright, if the burden she carried was something she could share.

But I didn't. I couldn't. Jamie's needs pressed against me like an iron weight, silencing every stray impulse. Whatever she was fighting—whatever weariness bent her shoulders—would have to remain unspoken. Today was not about her. Today was about Jamie. My focus narrowed to that single point, tuning out the rest of the world until all that remained was the mission at hand.

"What can I do for you this time, Mr. Smith?" Glenda's voice held the polished cadence of professionalism, the kind honed through years of practice, yet I caught the frayed threads beneath it. The faint strain in her eyes betrayed the weight she carried, the exhaustion she could not entirely conceal.

My response caught, suspended in my throat like something I couldn't quite swallow. The words I had rehearsed—over and over in the quiet minutes, when shadows and anxiety were my only companions—suddenly seemed inadequate. The image of Jamie's chest, blood seeping through his shirt, forced itself into my mind with brutal clarity. That memory alone should have galvanised me, but instead it tangled me in hesitation.

I had strategised every angle, every possible argument to persuade her, to lead her toward the only path that might save him. I had considered which words might appeal to her reason, which to her compassion, and which, if necessary, might corner her into compliance. Yet now, in the stillness of this small room, the air thick with antiseptic and fatigue, the weight of the moment threatened to crush all that preparation into silence.

Time. That was the one thing I no longer had. And if she sensed my desperation, would it weaken me in her eyes—or sharpen the urgency of my request? I couldn't afford to misstep.

Beyond Jamie's plight, there was the larger storm I knew was coming. The new virus spreading through Tasmanian communities wasn't a headline to me; it was an encroaching tide, a danger too immediate to ignore. The public's ignorance was not innocence but engineered blindness. I had glimpsed the hidden machinery behind the curtain—my brief work with the NGO had placed me in rooms where whispers held more truth than press releases. I had heard enough to know the official story was only the surface, a polished shell concealing something darker beneath.

And those whispers... they had brushed Glenda's name. Quietly, cautiously, but enough to plant the thought. Enough to make me wonder. Was she simply a weary doctor doing her best—or something more? Had she been drawn into the same hidden currents I had stumbled upon? Her work at the Royal Hobart Hospital, her position on the research foundation board, her connections throughout the Tasmanian medical establishment—all of it made her valuable. Made her a target. Made her potentially dangerous.

Or worse—was she already playing her own game, weaving her influence in ways invisible to me?

The paranoia clawed at me, tugging at the edges of my restraint. Was I here to seek her help—or to bind her into mine before she bound me into hers? My mind raced, torn between the empathy that longed to see the exhaustion in her eyes and ease it, and the cold, strategic voice whispering that I must remain in control.

I straightened in my chair, forcing my breathing into steadiness. Whatever the truth of her role, whatever shadows she walked in when she left this clinic, today she would need to be my ally. The choice was hers—but the outcome, if I had anything to say about it, would be mine to shape.

"Mr. Smith?" Glenda's voice, edged with a flicker of concern, cut through the fog of my spiralling thoughts and snapped me back into the fluorescent-lit present.

My pulse hammered against my ribcage, the sound in my ears almost drowning her out. I leaned forward, deliberately collapsing the polite distance that usually separated doctor and patient. The movement was calculated, though I let it masquerade as impulsive urgency. If I was going to test the boundaries of this conversation, I needed to seize control of it before hesitation betrayed me.

"Tell me, Glenda," I whispered, my voice carrying both determination and a naked trace of vulnerability, "What do you know about The Testing?"

Her response was instantaneous—too quick, too unguarded to be anything but authentic. Glenda's eyes flared wide, not in confusion, but in fear—or recognition. A flash of something dangerous crossed her face before her hands shot up, pressing against our mouths, silencing me with a gesture that was equal parts instinct and desperation.

"Shh," she breathed, the word escaping her lips like smoke from a fire one cannot contain. "How do you know about... that?"

The intensity of her reaction coiled around my spine, cold and electric. A part of me wanted to recoil, to wonder if I had just signed my own death warrant by speaking aloud what was meant to remain unsaid. Another part—the colder, sharper part—registered her fear as confirmation. My gamble had landed. The rumours were not shadows in my imagination; they were real, and she was tied to them.

For a brief, surreal heartbeat, the ordinary trappings of the doctor's room—the medical posters about hand hygiene and flu vaccination, the faint hum of the air-conditioning, the dull antiseptic tang—seemed to fall away. It was just her and me now, suspended in the fragile space between revelation and betrayal.

I thought back over the years I had known Glenda. Her integrity had always been her hallmark: the quiet way she advocated for the marginalised, the patients who fell through the cracks, the ones society preferred not to see. She had been a physician, yes, but more than that—an ally for truth in a world addicted to easy lies. That she might be tethered to The Testing... it didn't shock me as much as it confirmed the hunch I had nurtured in silence. There was always more to her. There was always something unspoken beneath her eyes.

And now, here it was—laid bare, if only for an instant.

But there was no retreat, no possibility of pretending this conversation hadn't crossed a line. The moment my question had left my lips, the ground beneath us had shifted. We were no longer bound by the safe roles of doctor and patient. We were co-conspirators now, however unwilling.

The silence between us thickened, heavy with the gravity of unvoiced knowledge. I could almost feel the weight of it pressing down, an invisible hand forcing both of us to reckon with what had just been exposed. And in that silence, one truth crystallised in me: the path was set. I would press forward, even if it meant dancing on the edge of peril.

I leaned in even closer to her ear, the urgency of my message necessitating the intimacy. My breath brushed against her skin, and for a fleeting instant I wondered if she felt my heart hammering through the air itself. "I can get you to a safe place," I whispered, my voice a soft yet firm promise, a vow I intended her to believe as much as I needed her to.

Glenda's reaction was instant. Her eyes widened, and she recoiled just enough to study me properly, as though she needed to re-evaluate who I was sitting across from. "Really?" she whispered back, her voice trembling on the fault line between scepticism and hope. "Is there such a place?"

In silence, I uncurled my fingers, revealing the small, unassuming object in my palm. It looked almost comical here, under the sterile glow of the fluorescent lights, sitting against the backdrop of antiseptic and stethoscopes. The Portal Key, smooth and inscrutable, appeared mundane—just another oddity one could dismiss.

"Yes," I whispered back, the single syllable heavy with conviction.

Her breath caught. "What is that?" Glenda leaned in, her medical detachment slipping away, replaced by genuine, unguarded curiosity. Those sharp eyes of hers, so used to scanning for symptoms and diagnosing maladies, were now searching for a meaning she couldn't quite articulate, as though the object before her might diagnose me.

"I'll show you," I said. The whisper left my lips with a decisive edge. I rose to my feet, the chair scraping softly across the linoleum, the sound far louder to my ears than it should have been. For a heartbeat, paranoia gripped me—was someone listening beyond that thin door? Was this the moment I tipped my hand too far? I forced the thought down, keeping my exterior calm, collected. Control. Always control.

"Are you sure we are alone?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt, each word chosen as if it were a chess piece I was moving across a dangerous board.

Glenda's hesitation was telling. Her gaze flicked to the door, lingered there a moment, then drifted back to mine. "I can't be certain," she admitted softly.

The uncertainty gnawed at me. My mind painted images of hidden microphones, eyes behind glass, hands scribbling notes of my every word. But Jamie's chest—bloodied, fragile, desperate—rose in my mind, pushing those images aside. If I hesitated now, Jamie might not have the time.

With a deep breath that steadied me more than it should have, I began rearranging the sparse furniture. Each scrape of chair leg across the floor sounded like an alarm bell to my paranoia, but I pressed on, quiet urgency shaping my movements. I needed space. I needed a clear surface against the wall—something that could serve as the canvas for what I was about to reveal.

And then, with a motion that felt both impossibly routine and utterly otherworldly, I activated the Portal Key.

The back wall—bland, white, forgettable—shuddered, and in the blink of an eye became something extraordinary. Bright, electrifying colours burst forth, surging across its surface like living paint. They swirled and collided, creating a mesmerising vortex, growing and stretching until it consumed the wall entirely.

The sterile medical room was transformed, its clinical anonymity drowned out by a spectacle of impossible beauty. The Portal loomed like a radiant wound in reality, a beacon of escape, of danger, of possibility. The hues shifted and danced—crimson bleeding into gold, gold dissolving into violet, violet spiralling into emerald—as though the fabric of existence itself was being rewoven before our eyes.

And in the reflected glow of its light, I saw Glenda's face—pale, transfixed, her scepticism burnt away in the blaze of proof.

With the Portal pulsating before us, the urgency of the moment eclipsed all else. Its light bathed the small medical room in shifting hues, bending the sterile walls into something alive, something dangerous. "Shall we?" I asked, my voice steady despite the storm that churned within. I extended my hand toward Glenda, an invitation, yes—but also a test, a lifeline, a way to see how far she was willing to step into my world.

Rising from her chair, Glenda's face became a canvas of wonder layered with determination. The clinical ambiance of the office—the faint tang of antiseptic, the muffled murmur of patients beyond the door—receded into irrelevance as she approached the shimmering gateway. Her movements were careful, deliberate, almost reverent, as though she were entering a cathedral rather than breaching the fabric of reality.

"I have heard my father speak of it before, but never seen it with my own eyes. It is more beautiful than I had ever imagined," she murmured, her voice tinged with awe, but beneath it, something older—a thread of memory, of belonging.

Her words landed like a stone in the still pond of my thoughts, sending ripples of shock through me. Her father? The implications unfurled before I could contain them. Gebhardt Donger, the Swiss storyteller—I'd read somewhere that Glenda had grown up in Zurich, that her maiden name was Donger. If her father had known about the Portal, had spoken of it to his daughter...

"It is," I agreed carefully, my gaze shifting from the Portal's kaleidoscope of light to her face. I studied her as one might study a map, searching for lines that revealed where her loyalties truly lay.

Glenda's father knows about Clivilius? The thought looped inside me, insistent and unsettling. If true, this changed everything. Was he like Cody and me... a Guardian? If so, which kind? Protector or executioner? Ally or spy? The possibilities unfurled in my mind like a deck of cards being spread on a table, each one darker than the last.

Holy fuck. The expletive exploded silently in my mind, stark and raw, the only honest distillation of what thundered inside me. I masked it outwardly with calm detachment, because control was my armour. But paranoia sharpened its claws, whispering that I might be handing Glenda—and by extension her father—power over me.

And yet, here in the glow of the Portal, that paranoia intertwined with something else: a strange, undeniable sense of destiny. Her revelation was not a wall but a thread, binding us tighter. The Portal wasn't just a doorway—it was a mirror, showing me the gravity of what we were becoming. Allies? Pawns? Co-conspirators? Perhaps all three.

As the Portal's light spilled across us, the air heavy with secrets, I felt it: our paths no longer ran parallel. They had converged, tangled by threads of past, present, and the uncertain future waiting on the other side of that impossible doorway.

Glenda hovered at the threshold of the Portal, her silhouette haloed by the kaleidoscope of colours that swirled and beckoned like a living thing. The light played across her features, softening the lines of fatigue but amplifying the conflict etched into her stance. She stood suspended between two worlds—the sterile, familiar clinical space at her back and the vast unknown that shimmered before her. The tension in her posture was almost audible, a silent vibration of fear and longing.

"What's wrong?" I prodded, my voice sharper than intended, anxiety bleeding through despite my effort to sound calm. Every second that ticked by felt like a thread fraying from the delicate fabric of my plan. Urgency coiled around me, taut and unrelenting, reminding me that hesitation was as dangerous as betrayal.

"Pierre. What will happen to Pierre?" Her words broke through like a plaintive note in a discordant symphony. Her voice carried not only fear but a fragile hope, a longing for reassurance I hadn't anticipated. Pierre—her husband, the virologist at Menzies Institute. An anchor I hadn't accounted for. Of course. Everyone had someone. Everyone had a tether.

"I'll bring Pierre for you," I pledged, my voice firm with resolve, though part of me winced at the weight of the promise. "And your parents." It was a calculated assurance, but necessary—a thread to draw her across. I couldn't afford for her loyalty to waver now.

The mention of her father transformed her expression, sorrow welling like a tide behind her eyes. "I lost my father many years ago," she confessed, her voice fragile, the sound of grief that hadn't quite dulled with time. The sorrow humanised her, but it also unsettled me. So who, then, had spoken to her about the Portal? Was it truly her father before his death, or someone else she wanted me to believe in? The question whispered at the edges of my thoughts, unwelcome yet persistent.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I replied, and the words were genuine, heavy with empathy. But beneath them lurked the sharper part of me—the strategist who filed this new detail away, sifting it for potential lies, for hidden meanings. Gebhardt Donger was dead. Yet his knowledge had survived, passed down to his daughter like an inheritance she'd never expected to claim.

Glenda's gaze returned to the Portal, the swirling vortex of light and possibility. It pulled at her like a tide, but fear still clung to her. "When?" she asked, her voice distilled to a single syllable, carrying both her uncertainty and her desperate hope.

"As soon as I can. I can't promise I'll be quick," I admitted. The honesty was tactical, a small concession to bind her trust more tightly. Overpromising would make me seem desperate. Measured honesty made me reliable.

"Thank you," she murmured, her eyes locked on the mesmerising colours. The light refracted in her gaze, painting her irises with shifting shades, as though Clivilius itself was already claiming her.

She stepped forward again, tentative yet inevitable, drawn by the Portal's strange allure. It wasn't just a step across a threshold—it was a step into fate. Watching her, I felt the dual pull inside me: the empathy that longed to protect her, and the darker instinct that calculated her usefulness, her risks, her place in the fragile architecture of my survival.

"I'll be right behind you, Glenda," I assured her. Outwardly it was a simple promise, but in my mind it doubled as a test. Would she believe me enough to move first? And if she didn't—if she turned back at the last second—then I would know exactly how far I could trust her.

The sudden vibration of the phone on the desk sliced through the charged atmosphere, its shrill insistence like a blade tearing through silk. The sound dragged Glenda's gaze from the shimmering whirl of the Portal, severing the fragile momentum that had been drawing her forward. My stomach lurched. Shit. The word reverberated inside me, a blunt, bitter echo that set my nerves jangling.

Her steps carried her to the desk with a speed that only compounded my dread. Time was slipping—slipping through my fingers like water through a sieve—and every second she wasted felt like treachery against the urgency that pounded in my veins. Come on, Glenda. My inner voice sharpened into a growl, feral with frustration. We don't have time for this. Move the fuck along.

Then it happened—her reaction. A hand shot to her mouth, her breath caught sharp and high in her throat. Whatever had flickered across that screen wasn't trivial. It was damning. It was dangerous. The sight chilled me, a primal warning knotted deep inside.

"What is it?" I asked, my words clipped, tight, the impatience beneath them barely leashed. Concern and urgency tangled into a snarl that threatened to undo my composure.

She turned, her stride heavy with dread, and held the phone out to me as if it burned her fingers. "Luke, you must destroy this phone for me, please," she pleaded, her voice cracked with desperation. Her eyes, wide and fearful, met mine with a naked honesty that unsettled me. Whatever she'd read, it wasn't just inconvenient—it was catastrophic.

The screen showed a message. From Pierre. Brief words that explained everything: We've been compromised. Run!

"I will. You have my word," I replied, forcing steadiness into my tone. My promise rang firm, but inside my mind raced. The device was suddenly no longer a phone but a weapon—a liability weighted with secrets, evidence, enemies. It felt heavy in my hand, saturated with significance. Whose eyes had just watched them through some invisible network? Whose ears had just listened?

The Fox Order. The Testing. Whatever conspiracy Glenda and Pierre had been investigating, it had caught up with them. The timing couldn't be coincidental—my arrival, my question, the Portal blooming to life in her office. Someone knew. Someone was watching.

Glenda turned back towards the Portal, but as her figure neared the kaleidoscope of light, her steps faltered. She stopped dead, as though rooted by some unseen force.

And that was it. My frustration detonated inside me, a silent scream ricocheting through my skull. Oh, for fuck's sake! What is it now?

I clenched my jaw, my outward mask still intact, but behind my eyes the paranoia twisted tighter. Was she wavering because of fear—or because of something else? Was this hesitation hers alone, or the sign of a message received, orders obeyed? The possibility coiled inside me, black and venomous.

"Oh, Luke. I nearly forgot," Glenda's voice sliced through the taut silence, halting the frantic churn of my thoughts.

My head snapped towards her, pulse still racing. "What is it?" The question came out sharper than I intended, the impatience baked into my tone betraying the frayed edges of my composure. But if she noticed, she gave no sign; her own thoughts seemed to preoccupy her, heavy and inward.

"In my top drawer, you'll find my hospital ID and keys," she said, her voice steady but weighted with the gravity of the trust she was extending. "I have a high enough security level that will get you into almost any part of the Royal. You may find them very useful later."

The words hit me like a sudden shift in terrain—unexpected but undeniably valuable. The Royal Hobart Hospital. Access. Movement. Leverage. She was offering me more than keys and plastic; she was offering an open door into a world of knowledge, records, and resources. My paranoia, though ever-present, quieted for a moment beneath the cold logic of utility.

"Indeed, I am sure I will," I replied, keeping my voice even but lacing it with just enough warmth to signal appreciation. Inside, though, I catalogued the gift with meticulous attention. Another tool in my hand. Another angle of control. Another piece in the chess game.

I gestured toward the Portal, my palm open, coaxing her forward. "Let's go," I urged, softening my tone now, shifting from commander to guide. It was persuasion cloaked in gentleness, the shepherd's nudge that hid the strategist's calculation.

Glenda drew in a deep breath, the kind that gathers both courage and surrender, before stepping into the radiant maw of the Portal. Its colours surged to meet her, enveloping her like a living tide, the hues twisting and twining around her until she was no longer herself but a silhouette stitched from light. She blurred, then sharpened, then vanished, claimed by the threshold.

I followed immediately, unwilling to let distance creep between us. The cascade of colours consumed me, every nerve alive with the sensation—pulling, pressing, reshaping. It was as though my very essence was being rewoven in threads of light and sound. The clinic, the phone, the doubt—all of it dissolved into nothingness.

Ahead, only the call of Clivilius beckoned. And behind me, the door between worlds sealed itself shut, collapsing into ordinary plaster and paint as though it had never been anything else.

We had crossed. Both of us. And for Dr Glenda De Bruyn, there was no going back.