The first thing that changed was the air.
Not abruptly. Not enough to startle.
Just… corrected.
Galathea Brooks inhaled, and for the first time since stepping into the Doom, her breath landed where it was supposed to. No delay. No distortion. No subtle misalignment tugging at her lungs.
It settled.
Warm. Even. Easy.
She didn't question it immediately.
Didn't reach for the wrongness that had followed her into the threshold like a second pulse beneath her skin.
Because it wasn't there.
Or if it was-- it had softened into something livable.
The hum was gone.
Or worse--
it had become indistinguishable from her own body.
She opened her eyes.
The absence had resolved.
Not into something dramatic.
Something… familiar.
Light spilled across polished flooring in a quiet, deliberate angle-- late morning, not harsh, not dim. Just enough to suggest time had passed without demanding she account for it.
The space around her held weight now.
Walls. Texture. Structure.
A home.
