Tobin liked the lower sky-platform to feel just right. It sat between two homes on the Tarnedrift Steps, with the stair-bridge laid across one side and three water barrels tucked near the rosemary pots. When everything stayed in place, people could cross safely, carry lunch, and wave to neighbors without wobbling.
That morning, after a night of heavy cloud-wash, Tobin put both flour-dusted hands on the platform’s edge and gave it a firm shove to test it. The wood answered with a small creak. Then, under his hands, it slid a little.
Tobin blinked. The platform had never moved like that before.
A thin scrape came from below, where the stone anchors held it fast to the steps. Sella, tiny beside her moss-green shawl and rosemary pots, looked up from her balcony garden. “It’s slipping,” she said quietly, as if saying it softly might help.
Before Tobin could answer, the stair-bridge gave a tiny jerk, and one water barrel rolled half a handspan out of line. Not far. But far enough for Tobin to see the landing was no longer settled the way it should be.
He set one hand harder against the platform and felt it pull back, as if something hidden were tugging from the other side. Should he keep bracing it where it was, or step closer and find out what was making it slide?
What happens next?
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