The Threshold

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which Maya had always considered an unlucky day for news.

She turned it over in her hands. No return address. Her name written in a hand she didn't recognize — neat, deliberate, almost mechanical. The envelope was a deep cream color, heavier than normal paper, sealed with a single dark wax stamp bearing the image of a branching path.

Inside was a single card:

You have been selected. The door at the end of Vessel Lane opens at midnight tonight. Come alone, or not at all.

Maya set it down on her kitchen table and stared at it for a long time. Outside, the city hummed its ordinary hum. A pigeon landed on the windowsill and regarded her with one orange eye.

She thought about calling her sister. She thought about throwing the card away.

She didn't do either.