The door was blue.
The traveller noticed this before she noticed anything else.
It stood at the end of a street she did not remember seeing before, set into a wall of pale stone.
There was no building behind it.
At least, none that she could see.
The wall ran from one side of the street to the other.
The door stood in the middle.
It had no number.
No sign.
No handle.
Only a keyhole.
The traveller approached it.
She looked behind her.
The street was empty.
She looked up.
The sky was grey.
She looked at the door again.
It seemed to be waiting.
She put her eye to the keyhole.
Darkness.
She stepped back.
There was no sound from the other side.
She knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Nothing.
She knocked again.
A voice answered.
“Why are you knocking?”
The traveller froze.
“Who is there?”
“Who do you think?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why did you knock?”
She looked at the door.
“To see what was there.”
There was a pause.
“How do you know there is something there?”
The traveller frowned.
“You answered.”
“Yes.”
“So there is someone there.”
“Perhaps.”
She stepped closer.
“Can you open the door?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don't have a key.”
“Where is the key?”
“Wherever it is.”
She almost laughed.
The city was becoming predictable.
“Can you tell me what is behind the door?”
“No.”
“Because you don't know?”
“No.”
“Because you can't see?”
“No.”
“Then why can't you tell me?”
The voice was silent.
At last it said:
“Because you haven't opened it.”
The traveller put her hand against the wood.
“Then let me in.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because you haven't opened it.”
She withdrew her hand.
“That makes no sense.”
“No.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Nothing.”
She waited.
The voice did not return.
She sat on the pavement.
For a while she simply looked at the door.
Eventually a man came down the street carrying a ladder.
He stopped when he saw her.
“Are you waiting?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“The door to open.”
The man looked at the door.
“It won't.”
“How do you know?”
“It hasn't.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It usually is.”
He leaned his ladder against the wall.
“Have you tried the key?”
“There isn't one.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a key.
The traveller stood.
“Where did you get that?”
“I have several.”
He tried the keyhole.
It did not fit.
He tried another.
Nothing.
Another.
Nothing.
The traveller watched.
“How many keys do you have?”
“Enough.”
“For this door?”
“No.”
He put them away.
“Then why carry them?”
“You never know.”
The traveller looked at the door.
“Perhaps the key doesn't exist.”
The man shrugged.
“Perhaps.”
“Would that mean the door can never be opened?”
“No.”
“Then what would open it?”
He picked up his ladder.
“When the right key exists.”
He walked away.
The traveller watched him disappear around the corner.
She returned to the door.
For some reason, she was now convinced that there was a room behind it.
Perhaps because of the voice.
Perhaps because of the keyhole.
Perhaps because every door she had encountered in the city had eventually opened onto somewhere.
She began to imagine what might be inside.
A room.
Perhaps a very large one.
Perhaps a staircase.
Perhaps another city.
Perhaps nothing.
She stopped.
The thought of nothing made her uncomfortable.
She had already discovered that an empty room was not the same as nothing.
An empty room had walls.
A floor.
A door.
It was empty only because something was absent from it.
But what would it mean for the space behind the blue door to contain nothing at all?
She leaned against the wall.
The question seemed impossible.
If there were nothing behind the door, then what was the door opening onto?
Nothing.
But if there were truly nothing, there would be nowhere for the door to open.
She stepped back.
The door seemed suddenly less like an entrance and more like a question.
A child appeared at the end of the street.
He was carrying a small wooden box.
He came towards her.
“Is it locked?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
He looked at the door.
“What's inside?”
“I don't know.”
“Then how do you know it's locked?”
The traveller opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
The child smiled.
“You don't.”
He sat beside her.
For a while they watched the door.
“Maybe there isn't anything inside,” he said.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe there isn't a room.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe there isn't even a door.”
The traveller looked at him.
“There is a door.”
“Yes.”
“So there is something.”
The child shook his head.
“There is a door because there is a wall.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“Why not?”
“Because the door is part of the wall.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
The child looked at her.
“Perhaps the wall is part of the door.”
She stared at him.
He opened his wooden box.
Inside were several small pieces of coloured glass.
“What are those?”
“Windows.”
“For what?”
He pointed towards the wall.
The traveller laughed.
“You can't put windows in a wall like that.”
“Why not?”
“There has to be a room behind them.”
The child looked thoughtful.
“Does there?”
She began to suspect that the city had been teaching its children dangerous questions.
The boy selected a piece of blue glass and held it against the wall.
Nothing happened.
He selected another.
Nothing.
Then a third.
The wall remained unchanged.
He sighed.
“Not yet.”
“Not yet what?”
He put the glass away.
“Not yet a window.”
He stood.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Where is that?”
He pointed towards the blue door.
The traveller looked at him.
“You live there?”
“No.”
“Then why point at it?”
“Because that's where home will be.”
He walked away.
She watched him go.
The street became quiet again.
She turned back to the door.
For the first time she noticed that there was a small inscription carved into the stone above it.
She had not seen it before.
She wiped away some dust.
The words were simple:
WHAT IS BEYOND HAS NOT YET BECOME.
She read them twice.
Then a third time.
She touched the keyhole.
It was warm.
She looked through it again.
There was still only darkness.
But now she wondered whether darkness was what she was seeing.
Perhaps she was seeing the absence of a room.
Or perhaps she was seeing a room that had not yet become one.
She sat down.
The afternoon passed.
The light changed.
People came and went.
Nobody opened the door.
Eventually the traveller stood.
She had begun to understand something, though she could not yet put it into words.
The locked door did not necessarily conceal a place.
Perhaps it marked the edge of a possibility.
But even that was not quite right.
A possibility sounded like something waiting.
This did not feel like waiting.
The door did not seem to be keeping a room hidden.
It seemed to be waiting for the relations that would make a room possible.
She put her hand against the wood.
“Are you waiting for me?”
There was no answer.
She smiled.
“Perhaps you don't exist yet.”
A voice came from the other side.
“I didn't.”
The traveller's hand remained on the door.
“When did you begin?”
There was a long silence.
Then:
“When you asked.”
She stepped back.
The door was still locked.
But the street behind her had changed.
A second wall had appeared.
Then a window.
Then a roof.
She turned slowly.
A house was becoming visible where there had been only empty space.
And as she watched, a small blue door appeared in its front.
She looked back at the locked door.
The inscription above it had changed.
It now read:
NOT EVERYTHING THAT IS POSSIBLE IS WAITING TO HAPPEN.
She stood there for a long time.
Then she understood that this was not a door she was supposed to open.
Not yet.
Perhaps not ever.
She walked away.
Behind her, she heard the sound of a key turning.
She stopped.
There was no opening.
Only the turning.
Once.
Twice.
Then silence.
She continued walking.
She did not look back.
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