The Door

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

I can’t remember how the hex took force. At first, I was just wood and metal, attached to a frame like other doors. Then, I became attuned to myself—aware of my hinges, the damages on my surface, and the echoes that seemed to stream through my edges.

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I felt the tentative pull of the person who first came through me. I couldn’t budge, couldn’t holler any warning. I could only wait, aware of the terror that lay beyond me.

I wasn’t always in this state. I was human once. They say I was a traveler who set an unfortunate foot into cursed lands. I became a guardian—one who made a bargain with the forces that placed a malediction on whoever stepped through.

I chose this.

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But the longer I stayed, the more I forgot what freedom was. The wind shook my frame, and I yearned to be part of life again. The worst part was that I knew what was waiting before me. It called nightly—making vows of liberty, offering unheard pleas for release. It sounded like me, but darker, hungrier.

I sensed it stirring whenever someone walked by, the echo of their footsteps sending quivers through my wooden form. They never hovered for more than a second—until now.

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Now a hand rests on me, fingers caressing the splintering wood. The air changes with a slight howl of the wind, and I steady myself. The echoes grow louder, eerier, rushing me to let them out. A hand tightens on the knob.

Don’t.

But I slowly creak open, and the world I once knew sings with me.

The hex lifts. And now, freedom.

Free to swing, free to close, free to open to unknown paths.