Doorway

I stand before a doorway, its frame thin as a whisper, casting shadows that stretch like questions across the floor. On the other side, a light shivers, soft and trembling, inviting, yet uncertain— a promise I am not sure I deserve. Each step forward feels like leaving a piece of myself behind, every heartbeat a key, every breath a hinge swinging open. The air smells of forgotten mornings, of laughter trapped in corners, of dreams I once carried but tucked too deep into pockets of fear. I hesitate, fingers brushing the wood, tracing lines that tell stories older than I am, echoes of choices made and choices never dared. And yet, the doorway waits, patient as the ocean, silent as snowfall, asking nothing, offering everything. I close my eyes. I step. And the world unfolds not in grand gestures, but in the soft unraveling of light between one moment and the next.