Closure to the Ominous

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. And there was only one thought: the moon just swallowed the sun.

The door had been sealed like the sun’s fate, by something older than fear. The cold oak floor stretched before me, smooth and unyielding. Each step felt heavier, as though the wood itself dared me to break that command. Its chill seeped into my bones, pulling me closer to the ominous.

I clutched my coffee cup, the porcelain warm against my palms. The bitter brew slid down my throat like a shadow into night. It felt like a pact, a silent agreement to welcome uncertainty ahead. As warmth spread through me, I could almost hear it urging me to confront what lay behind that door, to unravel the secrets within.

But deep down, I knew: some doors should never be opened. It wasn’t just a barrier; it was the boundary of what I could bear. As my fingers brushed the cold metal, the door quiverd, now alive. The darkness beckoned like grief, unstoppable, and I knew I couldn’t escape.

This was the door we all fear, the one that reveals our true selves. Was it me or the door asking: Are you good enough, or are you nothing? Behind it lay every judgment I’ve faced, my deepest fears, every failure, every shame I’d tried to outrun.

It wasn’t just a door; it was a reckoning with everything I am not.

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