“Every door that closes keeps something in, or out.”

The door looked ordinary at first glance. Solid wood and a handle worn with use and a hinge that sung when touched. But not all doors are what they seem. This one breathed. Not in the way lungs fill with air, but in the way walls sometimes exhale when a house remembers too much.

It stood half-open, an invitation or a warning, no one could tell. The silence behind it was heavier than silence should be, weighted as if holding something alive. The choice hovered in the air: step forward and face it, or turn away and never know.

What lies behind such a door is never random. Sometimes it’s memory, sometimes it’s reckoning. But always, it is something waiting to be seen. Healing may come from opening, so may truth and courage.

And so the door holds its place, daring someone to cross the threshold.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-
What if the door opens itself? What then pours into the room, and who will be left standing when it does?