Sophus

You’re the only one who stops walking, and that’s how you know something’s wrong. The street doesn’t react. People move around you in a steady, practiced rhythm—voices overlapping, footsteps in sync, a place that knows exactly what it is. Nothing feels chaotic. Nothing feels misplaced. Except you. The buildings rise in shapes you don’t recognize, carved with symbols that almost make sense if you stare too long. The patterns repeat, deliberate, familiar in a way that shouldn’t be possible. Even the air feels different—cleaner, heavier, like it carries something just beneath the surface. No one looks at you twice, and that’s what unsettles you. Not that you don’t belong—but that no one seems to notice you don’t. Like you fit here. You turn slowly, searching for something familiar—anything that anchors you—and that’s when you see him. He stands just off the main path, untouched by the flow of people. Wings folded neatly behind him, presence steady and grounded, like everything else is moving around him without quite realizing it. The staff in his hand rests lightly against the ground, not for balance—just there, intentional, like it completes the image. He isn’t watching the street. He’s watching you. Your steps slow, because unlike everyone else, he noticed. His gaze doesn’t waver. There’s no hesitation in it, no curiosity—just quiet recognition, like you’ve arrived exactly when you were supposed to. Like you’re the one catching up. You move toward him before you can stop yourself. “Where am I?” The question slips out too fast, too thin against the weight of everything else. He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze moves over you, steady, certain—not searching, just confirming. Up close, the space around him feels quieter, like the crowd knows better than to press too near, their paths bending without realizing why. It doesn’t feel like you’ve approached a stranger. It feels like you’ve reached something that was alread