Ada

Our humble homestead was much like the others in our town — bricks and mortar, hard work and sweat, the fruits of diligent labour and precise planning.

To all intents and purposes, it was not any different to number 10 or number 14, save for the quiet, unique doorway I had installed — Ada, though I would not call her that until later.

A solid oak with beautiful grain patterns, it too was a simple affair, aside from its bottom third. Filigree and ornate, and soundly central, the peephole was an almost oval, feminine design. Elegantly carved labial framing bloomed around the glass viewing lens. Sacred and living, it was a work of art. Much like the muse that inspired it, I had no doubt.

It had been one of those spur-of-the-moment purchases, as we walked around the market or bazaar in some forgotten corner of the world. Isabella, my wife, thought me ridiculous, but knew there was a better use of her time than trying to dissuade me from investing in the rather elaborate but functional handiwork.

I was particular, while she was laidback. She thought it intriguing, but didn’t hold it in the high esteem I did. But, as a loving and doting companion, she appreciated my reverence for something so feminine. She even accepted the constant attention I gave it — properly cleaning and buffing it weekly, according to the directions of the old woman who sold it to me.

Once, I even begged her indulgence to help gently buff its smooth curves. It felt alive, and on a particularly quiet day, you could feel its heartbeat and a warm exhale. Despite my assertions, my wife debunked my wildest theories with talk of the air outside, finding a gap in the design. Nothing was perfect, after all. It didn’t matter how much I argued that this was without fault, and there was no way air could find a way in. She was not for changing her opinion.

Strange as it might seem, the very reason the opening existed in the door was not the biggest draw for me. Weeks had passed without my eyes passing over the circular lens positioned at the uppermost point of the curved framing. My dearest Isabella may have felt it odd that I had barely used it as a peephole, but likely thought better to mention it.

As tensions mounted, a heated debate about the centrepiece of our house was brought to an end by Isabella’s insistence that there was a knock at the door. A knock I did not hear. Rather than arguing further, she took it upon herself to use the peephole for its intended purpose.

Although there was still tension bubbling away, Isabella was the more patient and reasonable of our coupling and let a lot slide. There were worse things I could be obsessed with, she would repeat as a mantra when I was attending to its increasingly demanding needs. Silently, I heard the door talk to me, secretly whispering her needs and desires. Questioning my own sanity and suggesting that I was following the old woman’s instructions, the door reassured me that I was not on the cusp of psychological oblivion and that she knew what was best for her.

The scent of polished oak and something ancient filled my nose. Heat radiated from the smooth curves under my hands, and I felt the slow pulse of life beneath the varnish.

This was one thing Isabella always saw as one of my strongest personality traits — listening to her needs and adapting accordingly. So why would I question the object of my affection if doing so was contrary to what the most emotionally intelligent woman I knew had taught me was a strength?

In truth, I was spending more time with her. I didn’t see that as unhealthy. Why would I? She was whispering such wisdom I couldn’t even begin to explain in mere words. At first, Isabella was not too concerned, as I had always been attentive and remained so. She was the love of my life. I loved our times together, dining, the intimacy we shared, and the quiet meditations we partook in on a near-daily basis.

While showering one day, lost in a haze recounting one of the stories my muse had shared with me during our daily constitutionals, as the steam infiltrated my lungs and the water scored red lines down my back, my solitude was interrupted.

A shriek of horror, or maybe disbelief, came from the other room. With nothing but a towel and what nature gifted me, I dripped into the lounge to find Isabella pale and gaunt. The rose had dissipated from her cheeks, and she was clutching one hand in the other, as if nursing an injury. Though she fought hard to keep her hand to herself, I released it from her vice-like grip to find nothing. There was a warmth emanating from the skin, but no nicks, splinters, scalds, or any tell-tale signs of injury.

After calming her, cradling her in my arms, I asked what had happened, but she stayed silent. Over the next few days, I saw little of Isabella as she preferred to hide away in the bedroom or the makeshift workshop we had set up towards the rear of the house for her craftwork. Perhaps others in my position would have showered her with affection and attention, but I thought it best to let her have some space.

The curved blooming centrepiece, or Ada as I had taken to calling her, and I had formed something of a bond. As strange as that may sound, it was not something I set out to happen. It just did. We just became us. As I tended to her physical needs, she repaid me with wisdom, tales as old as the rains and soil they fed. Beyond simple lust and passion, our bond was something… different.

I had learned of living trees as a boy, as anyone with a keen interest in the other half of the void between the living and the dead had. But, while my dreamer mentality had fought hard to keep those realities alive, the dull plateau of our existence snuffed them and kept them hidden.

Ada had relighted that fire. As I spent so much time soothing and lubricating the folds and intricate curves, I felt her touch. From within that central point, her whispers continued, though they sounded like they came from the distance and not from the vibrating wood against my ear.

Our intimate communion was disrupted by Isabella’s shivering grasp of my shoulders.

"Ada?" I called, to no response.

"It’s just me, Harris. It's just Isabella."

"Isabella?" I asked, bemused.

"Yes. Remember? I love you," she pulled me close, but rather than warmth, all I felt was cold.

"I need..."

"You need to look through the keyhole. Look through the keyhole and understand," she interrupted.

A strong reluctance overcame me as I tried to kneel down to look through that most feminine waypoint. Whispered assertions blew through the air toward me. I lowered myself, trembling, toward the lens. The wood pulsed beneath my fingers, warm and wet with oil. A breath — not mine — escaped through the peephole. And then… my legs betrayed me.

Frozen, I felt an ache sweep through my body. My legs were no longer segmented into separate, functional limbs.

"Don't. Have faith, my love," commanded Ada, her voice rising above the whispers in opposition to Isabella's fretful encouragement. I barely registered the reason for my legs' functional inactivity. While I would never claim to have the most muscular Adonis-like limbs, it was a deathly shock to find curved wooden stumps in their place.

Powering the last of my fleeting willpower, I leaned forward and pressed my eye against the jewel between those curves I had cared for, and was struck with terror.

“It’s okay, darling,” Isabella whispered, honey-warm in my ear, as her arms drew me to the door and pressed me against its living grain.

Through the peephole, the Ada of my mind’s presence unfolded like a fully fleshed, living nightmare. Impossible and radiant. Smooth oak body, curves in all the right places coiled with a life of their own, glistening and entrancing… yet somehow she was more than wood, more than flesh—an impossibility that set my heart thrumming and my mind reeling. The centrepiece still held prominence but fought for the attention of my eye as I took in her breasts, her swan-like neck, and eyes burning red, highlighting the complex grain patterns of her face. She was an impossibility that made my pulse pound rhythmically and my thoughts splinter.

I realised I had lost all tactility, but felt a warmth growing. Isabella’s cold embrace dissolved into nothingness. For a heartbeat, I hovered between worlds — human and wood, presence and absence — before Ada’s voice and grain entwined fully with me, warmth pulsing through every fibre of my being. There was no space, no division, only the door. Only Ada. Only us.

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