His Goodbye

There was just one rule: Don't open the door.

Jasper couldn't help it, he was irresistibly drawn to it. Wouldn’t anyone? In a house meticulously explored from cellar to attic, a door had emerged.

Mother had told him not to go near it, not to touch it. She shouted even when Jasper wasn't near it. He knew his mother wasn't one to make idle threats.

But his mother was gone, as of late she had spouts where she was out of the house for days at a time, and when she was home she hardly paid attention to Jasper.

Because of this, Jasper felt the creeping tendrils of both anger and curiosity. He decided he would open it. It was a door of peculiar design: rough-hewn wood that tapered at both ends, resembling an hourglass.

He opened it.

In front of his eyes was a dusty wood floor. He discerned the faint shuffle of footsteps and hushed voices, setting his senses ablaze.

His heart ran cold when a figure emerged–clad in dark attire, His face was sunken and pale, like a specter drawn from the depths of despair. His long fingers reached towards Jasper's face, eliciting a shiver that coursed through Jasper's spine. He tried to turn away and flee, but he was bound by an unseen force.

It was then he heard a scream. “Don't touch him! Don't go near.” The figure recoiled as a familiar presence surged into the room—his mother, she collapsed on his chest and sobbed. “Get away from my baby!”

The horrible truth hit Jasper like a dagger, above him loomed the ceiling to his home.

The door was the entrance to his coffin.

The door ended up not just being an entrance to his coffin, but to the afterlife.

To his goodbye.