You’re walking along when the mist begins to thin. It has been quiet, too quiet, but every so often something small seems to buzz past your ear. A quick wisp of wind. A flicker at the edge of your vision. As the path opens, shapes begin to form. Trees. Low curling bushes. A cool reflective pool coming into view. The nighttime sky is clear, stars shimmering like scattered glass above. The moon hangs low, its glow turning the white flowers around the pool into something luminous, petals shimmering as though dusted in frost.
Behind the water stand three doors.
Silent. Questioning. Waiting.
The first door has a soft arched top, crafted from pale silver birch. Climbing vines twist around the frame. Some real, some carved so seamlessly into the wood that they deceive the eye. A single flower hangs down from the arch like a lantern. It shimmers, translucent, and faint pollen drifts from its center, catching the moonlight as it floats.
A circular window sits at eye level, filled with moonstone glass. Just opaque enough to blur whatever lies beyond.
It feels gentle. Watchful. Alive.
To the right, the second door seems almost misplaced.
Weathered pine. Soft gray brown. It nearly vanishes into the trees behind it. There are no carvings. No handle. Nothing decorative at all. Just wood that's slightly warped with age. A thin strip of light escapes from the bottom, so faint you almost doubt it’s there.
Leaves from every season gather at its base. Crisp autumn reds, pale spring greens, brittle winter browns, as if time itself settles there. A breeze moves through, and they shift softly against the wood.
It feels quiet.
Too quiet.
The last door stands larger than the others, imposing.
Blackened oak reinforced with iron. Thick horizontal bands bolt across its surface, each rivet hammered deep and true. The air around it feels different. Heavier. Protective. A heavy ring knocker rests against the center, secured with a lock.
Moss creeps along the edges, softening the severity. The frame is thick, carved with ancient runes worn smooth by years untold. Do they tell a story? Offer a warning? Or promise something extraordinary?
Partially hidden within the moss, a key shimmers faintly in the moonlight.
As if it has been waiting.
