The Door at the End of the Wall

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No one knew who had made the hole anymore. The wall was old, made of crumbling bricks, overgrown with moss and old posters, their letters washed out by rain. Between the yellow of a former circus advertisement and a yellowed photograph of someone who never returned, a round hole yawned—large enough for a curious glance, too small for a hasty slip through. But if you bent down and looked through the circular window into the other world, you could see it: the house. It stood on the edge of a cliff like a thought about to fly. Its turquoise roofs shone even on dull days, as if the sky had forgotten a little color there. Spindly turrets stretched in all directions, some crooked, others almost defiantly straight. Windows with curved frames reflected the light of the setting sun, and the carvings on the beams seemed to whisper stories that had never been fully told. The door—oh, the door!—was too big for the house, moss-green and splintered from the weather, yet it stood there like a promise. You could sense that it didn't open for everyone. On the uneven stone steps in front sat a child. The gray coat that enveloped it was much too big, the sleeves hanging over its fingers. Its feet dangled a little, not sure whether to stay or go. The child's eyes rested on the house—not out of fear, but out of a quiet, longing wonder. Beside the child, like a statue in anticipation, sat a snow-white cat. Its gaze was not on the house, but on the child, as if it could hear thoughts that had not yet been thought. Around the house grew a garden like something out of a dream: flowers of every color imaginable, and a few that had not yet been named. Bumblebees with bright stripes floated through the air like gentle clockworks. Behind the house, a river trickled, sounding so gentle and quiet, as if it were singing a lullaby for trees. An old wooden beam, which had probably once supported a bridge or a fence, served as a bench. There lay a piece of paper, held by the wind. Perhaps a letter. Perhaps just a blank piece of paper, waiting for words. The sun kissed the horizon, and the colors of the sky mingled like liquid amber with cream. The light filtered through the hole in the wall, as if to remind someone that some things are only visible from a distance—yet within reach. And as the child sat there, watched over by the cat, small lights began to flicker in the windows of the house. Not electric light—but the golden glow of stories seeking a home. Perhaps the door would open soon. Perhaps it was just waiting for the right thought.