Gate B47

You’re writing about hidden doors when you feel her watching.

Not the casual airport glances—focused attention. The woman at the charging station isn’t checking emails. Her eyes follow each word appearing on your screen.

You could angle your phone away. Instead, you keep typing. There’s intimacy in accidental readership, in someone experiencing your urban fantasy as it unfolds in real time.

Then you hear it. The notification ping from her device.

Your words. Your exact sentences materializing on her screen simultaneously. She’s not reading over your shoulder—she’s following your serial. Has been for weeks, maybe months.

Recognition hits you both.

Her eyes dart between your screen and hers, watching your protagonist’s hand freeze on a brass doorknob while your thumb freezes over the keyboard. She knows your style, your stories of ordinary people stumbling through impossible thresholds.

The doubling creates its own magic. Fiction bleeding into reality. The digital barrier dissolving like one of your own enchanted doorways.

Gate B47 transforms. No longer a waiting room but an impossible space where strangers connect through narrative threads spun into the digital void. Where two phones glow with identical light in a terminal full of separate worlds.

Your protagonist still stands before that mysterious door.

But here, you’re both protagonists now.

Your thumb moves. Her screen updates. The story continues writing itself, and she’s no longer just reading—she’s inside it, part of the magic you never knew you were creating.

In your fiction, doors lead to other realms.

In Gate B47, the stories do.