Liora found it in the hillside — a small wooden door too low for any human, too ornate for accident, and too recent for myth.
It wasn’t attached to anything.
Just a door.
Standing.
With hinges politely waiting.
A tiny brass sign read:
PLEASE DO NOT OPEN
(unless you must)
Liora tilted her head.
Her curiosity stirred, but so did a quieter question:
What counts as “must”?
Hunger?
Prophecy?
Boredom?
So she tried something different.
Instead of reaching for the handle,
she knelt
as though the door were a creature
with excellent posture.
The door shivered,
if wood can shiver,
and a thin line of light traced its edges —
not beckoning,
but acknowledging
her restraint.
A soft voice (possibly the hinge, possibly the air) whispered:
“You are the first to greet,rather than solve.”
Liora smiled.
“Some things,” she said,
“mean more when not converted
into consequences.”
The door relaxed,
its glow ebbing like breath.
Nothing opened.
Nothing revealed itself.
But for the rest of that day,
the hillside felt
deeply grateful.
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