The Red Door That Waited

The Red Door That Waited

The red door stands still,

set in heavy stone,

holding its long secret,

away from the world.

Light gathers around it,

thick and unmoving,

as if the past itself,

clings to its frame.

Every stone seems marked,

by hands long gone,

by lives once lived,

that never returned.

It feels like a boundary,

between known and unknown,

between safe ground,

and something deeper.

The air grows tense,

as if truth waits,

as if time pauses,

for one brave step.

Nothing breaks the silence,

no wind, no call,

only the quiet pull,

from behind the door.

Those who walk near,

feel the cold rise,

a question in the air,

asking if they dare.

The red door remains,

unmoved by years,

guarding what it keeps,

until someone enters.