Threshold

The door was never closed, only the light changed. You stood in that seam between rooms, your shadow falling both directions.

Behind you: the hum of familiar things, the low drone of belonging. Ahead: a key you haven't learned to turn, air that tastes of copper and rain.

You could name it decision, but naming is for people who've already chosen. Here, in the almost-dark, you are all the selves you've ever been.

The hinges know your weight. The frame holds its breath. Some passages don't announce themselves— they simply open when you're ready to pass through.