Mirea and the Door in the Sand

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It appeared on the third night of the wandering moon. No one had built it, and yet it stood there—firmly framed by rounded stones stacked in layers, overgrown with flowers, as if the wind itself had nurtured it. In the vast, silent desert, where no tree grows and no bird sings, it shone like a forgotten promise. It was a door. A door with a brass handle, open a crack. Behind it: a forest. Mirea was seven, maybe seventeen—time had never been her most faithful companion. She wore a dress the color of midnight and a hat larger than the questions others asked. Beside her sat He, the cat. Pitch-black, with eyes like lanterns when thoughts grow dark. She never spoke to many, but with Mirea she spoke often—and sometimes in rhyme, when the wind was right. "There it is now," He said. "The path no one seeks and everyone finds." "I didn't seek it," Mirea said. "But you listened. And that's enough." The sand beneath her feet was warm, the roses at her sides breathed sweetly. The door opened a little wider, without creaking. Without threat. Without promise. Only invitation. Mirea stepped closer. Her heart beat not faster, but deeper—like a gong remembering an old name. She was no ordinary child. She was one of those born between dreams. And she knew that beyond that door waited not a forest, but a beginning. "If I leave," she whispered, "will I return?" He wrapped his tail around her ankles. "Perhaps. But not the same." The forest beyond the door smelled of moss and dawn. The path wound into a light that was neither sun nor memory. Mirea stepped through. Her steps were quiet, but each leaf turned toward her like a long-awaited guest. In the depths of the forest, a story waited that did not begin, but continued. A silver-barked tree whispered verses. A stream sang with voices that had long since fallen silent. And in a clearing, hidden beneath ferns and wind, stood a table. On it lay books—without titles, without words, yet not empty. Mirea opened one. It was her own. "You are here because you remember," said a voice made of shadows. Not evil. Not good. Just there. "I remember what never was," Mirea answered. "Then you will have to write what can still be." He stepped beside her. His gaze rested on the book. "This is the place where doors dream. And you are their teller." Mirea picked up the quill. There was no inkwell, only her fingers, her voice, her heart. She wrote. Of the girl in the dark dress. Of the cat who could see. Of the door that waited. And every word she wrote became forest, became light, became time.