Threshold

The door swings open on hinges that remember your hand, and the house exhales dust motes— each one a small year passing.

The lamp still stands crooked where you left it, casting shadows that no longer match the furniture. The walls have faded to a color you almost recognize.

You walk the rooms like reading an old letter, each footfall a word you'd forgotten you knew. The floorboards speak in your mother's voice.

Outside, the garden has rewritten itself— the roses gone wild, the fence surrendering to ivy. But the stone path remains, cracked and certain, leading you nowhere and everywhere at once.

There is a grief in how little changes and a blessing in how much must.