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017. sixth time's the charm!
𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊 (punctuated by Peter’s relentless complaints that they should just “swing there already”), Peter and Ingrid finally stood across the street from 177a Bleecker Street. The building loomed ahead, tall and dignified, its dark red bricks and stonework blending into the neighborhood with an air of studied mystery. But its uniqueness shone through. The deep, green-blue tiled roof arched over them, and in the center, a caged glass globe caught the autumn sunlight, scattering shards of color onto the sidewalk and giving the entire place an otherworldly glow.
Ingrid took a deep breath, squeezing Peter's hand with a mixture of anticipation and nervous energy. Her gaze trailed up the old, ivy-draped columns framing the entrance, each inch steeped in age and secrecy. Peter, meanwhile, fumbled with his phone, flicking it off in a quick, almost nervous gesture before turning to her, his expression softened by a small, reassuring smile. She met his eyes, finding a flicker of courage in his look that made her feel braver too.
“Ready?” he murmured, his thumb brushing gently over her knuckles.
Ingrid nodded, steadying herself, and together, they crossed the street, stepping toward the Sanctum Sanctorum’s imposing doors. The double doors were a deep, rich blue, their brass handles faded from years of use, worn like ancient relics. Peter paused, glancing uncertainly at the doors, his eyebrows knit together. There was no doorbell and no buzzer. He looked to Ingrid, who gave him a slight shrug, the hint of a smirk ghosting her face.
Peter sucked in a breath and, after a quick glance at Ingrid, raised his fist to knock. But before his knuckles could touch the wood, the doors swung open, wide and abrupt. A sudden gust of icy wind blasted out, throwing him back a step as he instinctively grabbed at the railing to steady himself. Ingrid’s hand shot up, summoning a small but fierce flicker of warmth that cut through the cold breeze swirling around them, her eyes narrowed as if daring the wind to push her back.
Inside was... surreal. The grand entrance hall looked as though it had been overtaken by a full-blown snowstorm. The marble floors, once opulent and gleaming, were buried under ankle-deep snow, and the grand staircase was blanketed in frost. Dim, antique lamps flickered through the haze, their soft glow casting shadows over frozen curtains that clung to frost-crusted windows. Every surface was a pale, untouched white, like the place had been caught in some ancient, silent winter.
Ingrid’s breath clouded in front of her face as she took a careful step forward, her gaze following a slant of sunlight that pierced the ice-coated glass dome at the top of the staircase, throwing an almost blinding glow over the snow. Her skin prickled as she felt the cold settle into her bones, but her curiosity held her there, grounded.
