The city smelled like old ink and wet brick. It stretched tall and narrow, like someone tried to build cathedrals out of smoke and then forgot to stop.
Chimneys puffed smoke, windows blinked like tired eyes. The streets gleamed with damp cobblestone, reflecting gas lamps.
Rowel adjusted his top hat. It didn't help.
He had chased a child here. Or rather, a sound—low, humming, familiar. A lull he'd followed across various worlds realms.
The hum always vanished just when he got close. This time, it came from a boy skipping through the crowd like he knew Rowel was looking for him.
Rowel had followed.
Then, lost him.
Now he was somewhere between an alley and a foggy regret, staring at a sweet potato cart.
The vendor was ancient. Possibly fossilized. His mustache had seen wars from how messy it seemed. His apron said, "Hot Roasted Wonders!" in letters that had given up trying.
"Excuse me, gramps, have you seen a child run through here—" Rowel started.
The man perked up immediately, lifting a steaming potato like a prize. "One or two, lad?"
"No… No, gramps, I don't want any potatoes, please—alright, let's start from the beginning." He took a breath, crouched slightly for dramatic effect, and waved his hand theatrically, figuring out that the man didn't have the best hearing ever.
"Haaaave yoooou seeeeen a chiiiiild… this tall?" He raised his hand to about waist height.
The old man squinted. Then laughed.
"Oh! Young man, nobody's ever planted a sweet potato that big yet!"
Rowel blinked.
"…That's not what I—" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. Okay. Listen carefully. Child. Humming. Ran this way. Does any of that ring a bell?"
The vendor leaned in, nodded solemnly, then placed a steaming potato directly into Rowel's palm.
"On the house. You sound unwell!" He gave Rowel a steaming sweet potato wrapped in paper, with a worried expression on his face.
"…Fine." Rowel bit into the potato. Scalded his mouth. Chewed through the pain.
"Perfect. Burning starch. Exactly what I needed to chase after kids—wait… that sounded wrong..."
He wandered off, still chewing. The old man waved after him.
"Careful with the big potatoes!"
Rowel raised the potato in salute. Not in thanks. In surrender.
"You win, gramps, you win…" A single tear rolled down his cheek in a dramatic display.
The alley narrowed. The light from the lamppost faded and the world became… quieter.
And then he saw it.
Not a door. Not exactly. A shape in space. Like someone had sliced reality with a blade that wasn't kind. It pulsed faintly slow, deliberate. Like it was thinking about breathing.
He stopped.
Wiped his mouth.
"This is stupid," he said to no one. Because he remembers not conjuring it. For only he can use such magic.
He stepped forward.
The door waited.