My hand, hovering over the weathered brass knob, feels the coldness of the metal; not touching, not yet touching, hanging in that interim between fate and will. Beyond the door . . . I know not. This room is too small, and the happy pictures, lulling laudanum, painted on the walls serve only to drive me mad in their insipidness. I’ll not stay in this little room; I’ll not touch the door.

I look down, Carved into the wooden door, the paint scratched away by a stolen knife, my child’s hand wrote long ago: “BEYOND WHATS TOLD”

I’ve been in this room too long. Clasping the little knob, my hand encompasses the brass. My wrist turns, and I hear the latch click. My hand lets go, and the thin wooden door, finally released, falls into the world beyond. I see into the world beyond. There go I.

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