in the harbor district stands a door that never stays shut. sometimes it opens to a hallway, sometimes to rain, once to the sea itself. sailors leave offerings of salt by the threshold, saying it listens better than priests. those who knock without it often don’t hear an echo.

at low tide, the wind pastes fresh posters along the docks. they shimmer faintly, written in languages that shift when you blink. the paper never stays dry, the glue never peels, and those who take a flyer swear their luck changes — though not always for the better.