The Vanishing Door

 The wood is scarred by your own hand, a heavy weight of oak and rust. It stands where once you used to stand, a monument to all you trust. Though locked and latched, the hinges groan; it whispers through the narrow seam, a tether made of marrow, bone, and every unexhausted dream.

To leave is easy—turning heels, walking 'til the soles are thin. But even then, the spirit feels the pull to turn and look again. As long as wood and frame remain, the past is just a room away, a curated and hollow pain that begs for one more yesterday.

Then comes the shift, the quiet blur, where edges bleed into the gray. The grain begins to lose its stir, the iron handle melts away. It isn't "gone" like things we lose, or buried deep beneath the silt; It is a choice you finally choose To let the very structure wilt.

The door dissolves. The wall is gone. The tether snaps into the air. No threshold now to linger on, no ghosts to keep a vigil there. The void is not a vacant room, but space where memory used to be— a terrifying, silver bloom of absolute and wild liberty.

Now nothing stands behind your back, no path to walk, no key to hold. Across the wide and starlit track, the great unknown begins to unfold.