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The lock was a rusted puzzle box. No keyhole, no handle—just a grid of small, square indentations arranged in a pattern that reminded Leo of a film strip. He ran his fingers over them, and one of the squares depressed with a soft click . Then another. Then another. He did not know the combination; his fingers moved as if guided by a memory that was not his own. The last square clicked, and the door swung inward on silent hinges.