It looked like a frame.
Not a passage.
Just two pieces of wood, nearly falling apart, standing in the middle of nothing.
I might’ve walked past it.
I think I almost did.
But something made me stop.
The way the cat paused. The way the fog curled around it. The stillness.
It didn’t ask me to open it. It didn’t promise anything. It just stood there — like it always had.
That was the strangest part.
It felt like it had been waiting for me far longer than I had been walking toward it.
I think we expect doors to announce themselves. To have signs. Symbols. Thresholds you can name.
But some doors are just moments.
Quiet ones. Ones you only notice when you’re quiet too.
I didn’t know it was a door.
Until I stepped through.
And realized the air had changed.
And I had too.