The Old Door.

Over the years the walls and woodwork had been repainted, re-plastered and re-varnished many times, reflecting the change of fashions and tastes of its inhabitants, or just to freshen up the gradual erosions of time.

But really the house remained fundamentally unchanged, an old, much loved, much loved home full of memories of children growing up, long cherished pets, and departed family members. The same repeated stories recurring down the years with the residents own little twists.

And amongst the many things its generations of dwellers had in common was that each of them ignored the small wooden door that hung on the east facing wall of the living room, just about a foot off the floor.

Of course every so often someone would try & open it. They’d pull for a bit, then give the brass handle a shake and try again. But it wouldn’t budge and without the key to the lock there seemed no way to open it. It might have been possible to try and force it as it didn’t appear particularly solid, but then that would have risked splintering the wood and each resident felt the damage would have been a shame.

In any case if you went around to the opposite side of the wall which formed part of the hallway, there was nothing to be seen. Just a plain piece of plastered wall, painted a pale salmon pink to match the carpet.

So it remained a strange anomaly, a door too firmly shut to open, too high to step through and without a destination. It served no purpose; it wasn’t a real door just an echo of a door, an illustration or museum piece of what one might be like.

Then one day that all changed.