“You can keep it for a while,” Hadi said, appearing at the doorway with a cup of something warm. “It doesn’t solve everything, but it helps you find the lines that need finishing.”

A woman at the back wiped her hands and asked, “Torabulava?”

On the last night of the year—no calendar could tell you why it mattered more than any other—Mara returned to the stage. V5 glowed like an old scar healed into a decoration. The neon had been softened by frost. Hadi stood with a small envelope in her hand.

She opened the envelope. Inside was a new key, lighter, its emblem worn smooth by other palms. Attached was a scrap of paper with three cryptic words: Find the next door.