Someone else was coming.

She knocked.

The letter had no return address, just a single line typed in neat, vintage Courier font:

She should have thrown it away.

And then, without transition, the desert ended.

Then the asphalt ended.

A street appeared. Paved with hexagonal cobbles that fit together like a puzzle of dried blood and moonlight. Streetlights glowed with no visible source—pale lavender orbs that buzzed in a key just below hearing. The houses were impossible geometries: spiraling adobe towers, windows shaped like teardrops or keyholes, doorways that seemed to breathe.