At 7:14 PM, the sky above Sycamore Court ceased to be an atmosphere and became an aperture. Something wider than a continent—silent, geometric, and infinitely patient—has lowered itself to roof-level.

There was no panic. One by one, the neighbors stepped out onto their lawns, realized that linear time had been a temporary scaffolding, and unfolded into the chorus overhead. Only seven unfinished domestic moments still anchor the cul-de-sac to the Earth's crust. At 8:00 PM, the horizon will finish folding upward.