The Door in the Woods
A Tale
There was a house at the edge of the woods, perched just beyond where the road ended. It wasn’t the kind of house that called attention to itself—no grand pillars or sprawling porches—just a place where things happened. A place where people lived and left and sometimes came back different.
The girl who grew up in that house knew how to read the air. She knew when a slammed door meant danger and when it only meant someone had forgotten their own strength. She knew which words would pass through without consequence and which ones would crack the walls like a fault line. She learned early that some storms happen outside, and some happen in the kitchen.
One night, when she was small, she had a dream. In the dream, she saw a door in the woods where no door should have been. It was simple—wooden, old—but it stood upright, unattached to any walls, as if it had been left behind by something bigger.
In the dream, she knew two things with absolute certainty:
If she walked through, she would never be the same.
If she didn’t, she would spend the rest of her life wondering.
She hesitated—because that’s what you do when you are both brave and afraid, which she always was. But then she stepped through.
And woke up.
Years passed, as years do. She grew into a woman, built a life, had children of her own. She lived far from that house at the edge of the woods, but some things never quite left her. She still read the air, still anticipated storms before they arrived, still heard the echoes of voices saying, Don’t get used to this. It’s not the real world.
Until one day—one sharp, ordinary day—she saw it again.
Not in a dream this time, but in waking life.
The door.
It wasn’t in the woods, or standing alone, or glowing with any obvious magic. It was something smaller: an opportunity, an idea, a choice that felt like it had been waiting for her. She didn’t recognize it at first, but when she did, her stomach dropped the way it had all those years ago.
Because once again, she knew two things:
If she walked through, she would never be the same.
If she didn’t, she would spend the rest of her life wondering.
She didn’t hesitate this time.
She reached out, turned the handle, and stepped through.
And the door disappeared behind her.
She never spoke of it to those who would never understand. But if you asked her about it—really asked, in a way that meant you were ready to hear—she would only smile and say, The soul is won through imagination. And leave you to find your own door.