Doors

The days had blended, a sepia toned stream of rainy afternoons melded into the sting of hot coffee, wrapped in the scratch of a needle on vinyl and the sharp corners of a dog eared book. To one who endures solitude, this would have been a welcome escapade, but to her, it felt more... mundane. The hours were endless, a relentless stream of nothing, a foggy mist that was reeked of all the things it was missing. She had tried, as one does, to fill the hours with the novels that littered her bedroom floors and the sketchbooks stacked beside her bed, but it was in vain. She was exhausted from the nothingness the world had shifted into, tired of the desert of empty days.

In her more, per say, 'normal' universe, she was always moving, always thinking, tapping her foot to an invisible beat, playing with the chipped red polish coating her nails, twisting pieces of her sandy-coloured hair into braids, there was always something. She was lightning, moving and talking and dancing and running, only stopping when she absolutely had to.

But now, the desert of blank pages and unfulfilled days had trapped her, pressuring and pulling and tugging at her every nerve until she had to stop. She knew, with every fiber of her being, she had to put stop to the deep stupor life had fallen into, stop the long, winding road of nothing. So, as the smoggy tint of adventure drew her near, she made her escape.

They had always told her about the basement, the maze of antique doors coated in grime, the spirits that haunted it with a formidable presence. And of course (to the dismay of her parents and siblings), she had visited the space, smelled the musty essence of lives lived and loved, ghosts of a past she longed to discover, yet never dared to go near, despite her chivalrous spirit. She had heard the legends that had bespoken the doors, the tales of haunts and fear wrapping her in their cautious arms. She had heard the tales of destinies, run her ears over the words until they became more familiar to her than the pillow upon which she lay every night,

"One who ventures, never returns," said the destinies chimed, as her toddler self sat before them, gazing into their twinkling, enduring eyes, sleepily wondering if she could return, if there was a way. After all, there always was. To her, the world was only so wide, her mind only so small.

"One would find themselves lost, as it is inescapable, for each door leads to the next. There is no exit. There will very well be no entrance," they taunted, their warm hands leading her up to the familiar draperies of her real home, soft and comforting, yet scalding with the undiscovered. They dangled the taste of adventure, of the doors, of the room, in front of her, the way one dangles a piece of yarn in front of a cat's nose. She was close, so close, but not there, not enough. Yet.

But she craved to venture, craved to see, craved to delve into the secrets of the home she had come to know over years and years. She had always been that way, of course. Adventure is not a thing one grows into. To her, rules were a mere suggestion, an option, something she could look at and laugh. She felt fire, she was fire, burning everything she trod upon, with her messy hair and bruised knees and gap toothed smile. She smirked in the faces of the lion imposing on her, always fought back, never not trying.

A part of her always knew, that, despite the wishes, fears, doubts, and regrets of those who surrounded her, she would find a way to make her escape.

So, as the wind hugged the walls around her and smoothed the caps of the spindly trees outside her window and howled as the sky cried its salty tears, she ran, away from empty days and never-ending nights, away from the relentlessness the world had brought upon her, away from it all.

It was, finally, time.

Her bare feet pounded the wood floors, cool, stinging. Stair after stair, railing after railing, flinging herself through and through to find that taste of exploration, the bittersweet hint of expedition one who journeyed depended on.

And then at last, she was there.

She had been there before, though years before. The room remained unchanged. A singular door sat on the farthest wall from her, which she knew, as unimposing and mundane as it appeared, it would lead to a maze, a tunnel, a catacomb of which she had little chance of escape.

But she might as well take the chance.

After all, there was nothing better to do.

And so, she ventured on, her footsteps soft, the beat of her heart softer. And as she journeyed through each door, walked down each hallway, she felt the legends, the whispers. A breath in her ear, a hand on her shoulder, guiding her to the next right movement, the next right step.

And it wasn't incorrect, the way door after door greeted her, yet, each door seemed less frightening than how they were described. Instead of the tunnels of death and doom on which their description was based upon, they were rather friendly, and gave a comforting warmth and presence. They graced her with the familiarity of a worn leather boot, a sweater on a snowy day.

She began to wonder (as one does) that, perhaps, the fear was from those who had taken the wrong door, chosen the wrong path.

But she was guided, and she, herself, trusted, allowing herself to be lead into the right path.

And of course, she wasn't scared.

Well, perhaps a little.

But not anymore.

For she was greeted by these tunnels, embraced with kindness and grins, the wooden walls embracing her with every step.

And finally, she reached the last door. She knew it was the last, as the appearance so differed from the doors in her earlier journey. The wood paneling it glinted smooth and soft in the dim light that shined upon it, compared to the dull, worn finishes of the first ones she had opened.

This was, however, purely her instinct. She had been guided to this one, told to go her, and did as such. She knew it was the right path, knew she had chosen the right door, yet felt unsure, fear for the first time in her journey. This was where her path ended, where it stopped, where she would either go forward or spend her whole life trying to go back. The walls were closing in, the wood panels pressing against her, shortening her breath until she took a moment and

Stopped.

She knew this fear, despite her doubts on it coming. She knew, as it was the fear she had been told about for many years. But despite her fears, she had a discoverer's soul, iron clad and with hints of gold, glittering with what was yet to be found.

And so, she went on.

The handle fit perfectly in her hand, metallic and soft, despite having never been touched by her. Its cool glint and warm varnish made her feel sure, as though she knew, really knew, that she had chosen the right one.

And as she came to that epiphany, she felt the legends leave her, putting a shadow in their places, glowing with light and gold and the hint of a song.

She was alone on this journey, but she didn't mind alone.

Besides, she was never really alone.

Her heart beat, heavy against her chest, contrary to the soft thuds of her earlier journey, yet still echoing the drum of the rain on the ceiling, still audible so far down.

But she knew she would be alright.

She journeyed, therefore, she would find her way.

And so, the rusty hinges creaked as she turned the handle, scraping against the wooden door frame.

And she was greeted with the warmest hug she had ever known, hinted with the smell of crackling fires, fresh pillows, and vanilla.

She wasn't really alone.

"We've been awaiting your arrival. Welcome home."