The Door That Always Opens

The rain was falling without end, steady and fine, as if trying to erase the outlines of the city. The street below the window was empty. Even the trees seemed tired. Buildings stood blind and damp, without a single light to suggest life. Everything had been rinsed out, reduced to gray. Even the cars—those few that passed—looked alike, as if the city no longer recognized them.

He sat by the window. He didn’t move. In his hand, a cup of tea long gone cold. His gaze was somewhere far off, but it wasn’t searching. It resembled more a kind of waiting that had forgotten what it was waiting for.

In his chest — something. Not pain. More like the shadow of pain. Like an unspoken sentence lodged between his lungs, keeping him from taking a full breath. He wasn’t ill. Not in a way someone would say, “He is sick.” But something in the body wasn’t right. Or in time. Or in him.

Somewhere in the apartment, a dull sound echoed. Not like something had fallen—more like something had... arrived. Vague and low, like a vibration in the floor rather than a true thud.

The dog, who had been curled up at his feet until then, suddenly lifted its head. It barked once, then again, but didn’t run. It just sat, tense, staring toward the kitchen. Its tail stiff.

He didn’t get up right away. He wasn’t afraid. It was more the kind of disturbance that doesn’t come from outside. Something familiar but suppressed. Like a scent from childhood you’re not sure you invented.

When he finally rose, slowly, tiredly, he walked toward the kitchen. And there — a door.

It wasn’t new. Not even clean. Wooden, with a scratched frame. The kind you’d find in old apartments. But he knew every inch of that wall. There had never been a door there.

It stood open just enough that you couldn’t see anything through it. Only shadow. Or maybe it wasn’t shadow. Maybe the light from outside only made the inside look like darkness.

And the dog stopped barking.

He stood there for a few moments, just in front of the threshold. The dog didn’t react anymore, just lay there with eyes wide open, unmoving, as if waiting for someone else to decide.

The man stepped through. First one foot, then the other. No sudden breath, no drama. Just a crossing.

Beyond the door — silence. A room. Walls you couldn’t look at for too long. They weren’t dark, but they weren’t light either. Colors without color. Shape without proper explanation. And everything felt... familiar.

He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he had been there before.

Like dreaming of a place that doesn’t exist, but you grew up there.

He walked slowly. Touched a wall, but couldn’t say what it felt like. Tried to remember something concrete — a date, a season, his own name — but nothing had sharpness.

Then he was standing in the kitchen again.

The door was there. The same one. Slightly open. The dog sat as before, calm, as if it had never barked.

The man blinked. Looked at his hands. They weren’t trembling. Weren’t sweating. He didn’t know if he had ever moved at all.

The door was waiting for him.

Again.

This time, he didn’t stand in front of the door for long.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t look at the dog. He simply stepped through — like a man who knows he must enter, even if he doesn’t know what he’ll find inside.

Or maybe precisely because of that.

Inside — the space didn’t wait for him to recognize it.

Everything was shifting.

The walls shimmered like the surface of water when a stone is thrown.

A chair disappeared in a blink.

The wall that had been on the left was now on the right.

Or maybe it had never been there at all.

His footsteps echoed without rhythm. The sound didn’t return.

He couldn’t tell if he was walking straight or in a circle.

And the worst part — nothing seemed frightening.

Just illogical.

Like when sentences in a book start arranging themselves in the wrong order, but you keep reading anyway, because you know you’re awake.

And just when he thought he might remember what he was supposed to do—

The kitchen again. Same wall. Same door. Same dog, now curled up and sleepy, as if it had witnessed nothing. The man stared at the door, this time openly angry.

“Enough,” he muttered, and shoved it open with the flat of his hand, as if he could force it to become real. Then stepped in. This time, he didn’t even try to understand.

The space shifted as he walked. The walls were breathing.

And that’s what drove him mad the most — that he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, or part of someone’s tasteless cosmic joke.

At some point, he tried to turn back. He turned around. There were no doors. There was nothing.

“What is this?” he said aloud, and his own voice startled him — it was strange, thin, like it had been spoken by someone much farther away.

And then — again. The kitchen. The door.

This time, he didn’t even make it to the door. Because when he turned around, it was no longer there.

But it hadn’t disappeared. It had... moved. Now it stood to the left of the window. Open.

No sound. No sign that it had shifted. As if it had always been there.

He turned in disbelief. And then he noticed: the space no longer responded to him —

he was responding to the space.

He stepped backward — the door was in front of him. Looked at the ceiling — in the seam where it met the wall, a vertical crack. A door.

Closed. Open. He couldn’t tell.

At some point, he wasn’t even sure if he was walking, or if the space was moving beneath him.

Like a conveyor belt in a corridor that didn’t exist. Wind. Where had the wind come from?

The doors were now far. Then near. Then behind his back.

He tried not to react. To pretend not to see them. But then they started to pull him.

Not harshly. Not like a force. More like gravity. Like when you’re too close to the edge of sleep and no longer know if you’re still awake.

He walked and entered. Again.

This time, the door didn’t let him walk — it threw him forward. Not his body — his awareness.

And he stopped.

For the first time in who-knows-how-long — the space didn’t pulse. Didn’t shift.

It was... solid. And full of people.

They weren’t speaking.

They weren’t looking at him.

They weren’t moving.

They were just standing — scattered randomly throughout the room, some facing the wall,

some staring into their palms, some with half-smiles, as if they'd paused in the middle of a story no one had been listening to. No one reacted to his entrance.

He stepped forward. Slowly. Like he was walking through a church or a museum.

He looked at one man that seemed familiar. Not from life — but from a feeling.

As if he’d once dreamed of that person, but couldn’t remember when. Or why.

And then he understood. These weren’t people. They were what remained of people.

Fragments.

Echoes.

Shadows.

And he... he wasn’t looking for a way out anymore. Because there was nowhere left to return to.

The silence in the room was soft. It didn’t frighten him.

And in that silence — without a word, without any sign — he knew: “I died.”

Not as a blow. Not as a shock.More like a quiet acceptance of something that had already happened, but no one had told him.

Maybe the doors had been mercy. Maybe illusion. Maybe... a goodbye.

He looked at the people once more. And now they were all looking at him.

But they didn’t move. They only acknowledged him. And that was enough.