The thin place is quiet when we arrive.
Not empty. Not dead. Quiet in the way a room goes still when it knows you’re listening.
I stop a few steps short of where the air begins to change. The boundary isn’t visible. It never is. But my body recognizes it anyway. The faint pressure behind my eyes. The subtle lift in my chest, like a held breath that isn’t mine.
Adam halts beside me. Close enough that I can feel his warmth through my sleeve.
“This one feels different,” he says.
It does. And that alone makes my pulse quicken.
Most thin places push back the moment they’re acknowledged. They tighten. They resist. Like an animal that’s learned survival through pain. You look at them too hard, step too close, and they bare teeth.
This one doesn’t.
I tilt my head slightly, not advancing, n
