Door

The door, ordinary, ajar. A glimpse of green, unnatural, beckoning. Hesitation, a breath held, then a step into the impossible.

A field of grass, waist high, whispering secrets to the fluorescent hum. Buttercups blaze under the cold, sterile lights. The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and ozone, a paradox that stings the nostrils.

Silence, broken only by the rustle of unseen things in the undergrowth. A path, barely visible, leading to the heart of the impossible. The figure, shrouded in shadow, a silhouette against the –.

Fear, a cold hand squeezing the heart. The door, a distant memory, a lifeline to reality. The yearning to return wars with the insatiable curiosity to venture deeper. The figure waits, patient.

The door remains open, a fragile thread between worlds.