"You stand before it, the cold iron creaks are not surnamed. It whispers tales as old as silence, of wanderers that never returned and walkers without paths. Every step echoes, not heard but felt."
- A Lunatic's Musing
The question, a simple one: Where does a doorway lead? It's the sort of thing you think about when the sun’s down and the stars are gossiping too hard. I stood before it, this big ol’ door that had no business being in the middle of nowhere.
The wind howled, either in laughter or pity, it's hard to tell when there's such echoing vastness around. You ever hear a door speak? Not with words, mind you, but with that creak that says “I'm here, but you might reconsider.” That kind of talk is only for placeholders in reality or bustling urban myths, but there it was, right in front of me.
"Don't you see? Everyone thinks of a doorway as an entrance or an exit. Me? I think about doorways like the slice between dreams, the unspoken pause before your inner voice gets a vote."
Have you ever stared too long at something that's just supposed to be there? Before you know it, you're kneeling at the threshold, whispering apologies to inanimate entities. I ain't proud, but there are stories wrapped around these iron slabs. Tales of folks who found themselves in shadows or lost amidst echoing hallways.