The Threshold

The door swings neither open nor closed, caught in its own suspended breath. Light pools at the frame's edge— a color that has no name, that exists only in this moment between leaving and arriving.

Your foot hovers above the threshold. The floorboards behind you remember your weight, the room ahead holds its uncertainty like a secret. Neither foot falls. The air tastes of salt and vertigo.

Everything shifts when you move— the house contracts, the world beyond expands, the person you were cannot follow but the person you're becoming isn't dressed yet.

So you stand in the geometry of becoming, where tense collapses into a single point, where the hinge creaks its ancient song, and time doesn't pass—it accumulates, thick as dust, beautiful as grief.