The day is sunny.
The time is a little past noon.
The red door casts a small shadow over the green grass.
If you stand there and close your eyes,
You could swear you hear a river as it dove through the forest.
But the river's not important.
What's important is the door, or rather, what's behind the door.
The door is never locked.
The **** is always loose and fits nicely in the palm of your hand.
You can look around the door.
There's nothing special about it.
It is painted in the most ordinary of red.
The molding on the frame is nothing to admire.
Its importance is almost never recognized at first.
Everyone will see this door in their lifetime, sometimes more than once.
Some even grasp the **** and give an tiny tentative turn.
But many, too many, will turn away.
Fear loves to sit by this door.
He will take the hand of anyone who'll embrace him.
He never solicits his services.
He never advertises.
Yet people flock to him like flies to honey.
Funny how flies also gather around garbage.
But if you ignore him you will find your hand on that doorknob.
Give it a turn and extend your arm.
Close your eyes.
Remember what it took to get here.
The door gives a satisfying creak.
The dour man besides the door gives a barely noticeable frown.
You notice how it almost seems to glide open on its hinges.
A small bead of sweat carves a path down his forehead.
You gently let go and allow the door to open.
Like it was made to do.
He looks ill.
Step on through.