Thresholds

Between the light and the dark doorway, neither yours nor mine, I find what I'm looking for— a place where silence doesn't echo.

The rooms we inhabit aren't real until we step through them. Watch how the morning waits at the window, refusing to enter until asked.

Everything moves at the speed of recognition: a hand reaching, the breath before speech, the moment when you realize you've been standing still for years.

Doorways know this— they remember every threshold crossed, every hesitation, every choice to stay or step away.