I stood before the door as if before a monument to the dead. It rose out of the stone wall like the spine of some ancient beast, so tall and wide it seemed to belong to a cathedral rather than a house. The wood was dark, nearly black where the rain soaked it, the grain warped by centuries of weather, yet still holding the memory of the tree it once was. Carvings crawled over its surface—twisting vines, thorned branches, and faces worn smooth by time, their hollow eyes glinting whenever the lightning flashed. The storm made them seem to shift, as if the door itself watched me.
My hands, red and raw from the cold, looked absurdly small against its vast panels. The bronze knocker, shaped like a snarling beast with a ring clamped in its fanged mouth, hung far above my reach, green with age and dripping rain like it wept for me. I could only pound my fists on the lower panels, where the carvings were rough and splintered. Each strike was swallowed by the sodden wood, producing only a dull, hollow thud, as if the door had no heart to hear me.
The rain poured in relentless sheets, hammering the steps, crawling down my hair and soaking my clothes until I felt as if the storm meant to dissolve me into the night. My sobs rose and were torn away by the wind, lost beneath the drumming rain and the growl of distant thunder. My tears mingled with the rain until I could no longer tell them apart, salt or sky.
Another flash of lightning split the heavens, bleaching the carvings white for an instant—every twist of vine, every hollow eye—and then the thunder rolled so hard it shook the iron studs on the door like loose teeth. My shadow splintered across the wet stones beneath my feet, blurred and bent until it looked like something unhuman.
I struck harder, with both fists, my palms aching as if the door's bones bruised me in return. I shouted for someone—anyone—to open, my voice breaking in the storm. The door did not stir. The carvings gleamed wetly, the beast's mouth dripped, the rain poured louder, as though the heavens themselves mocked my pleas.
I felt so small beneath that massive, unyielding door, like a child abandoned at the threshold of a house that had long since forgotten warmth.
At last my strength unraveled. The pounding in my fists ebbed into a tremor, and I sank to my knees on the rain-slicked stone. Water spread beneath me in a cold, unclean pool, soaking through my clothes as if the earth itself meant to drag me down and keep me. My breath came ragged and thin, tasting of metal, like the inside of a bell after it has tolled.
I tilted my head back toward the towering door. In the storm's shifting light it seemed to lean forward, its carved vines and thorn-spiked tendrils curling as though they might reach for me. The hollow-eyed faces in the wood glimmered wetly, their mouths warped in shapes that hinted at hunger. For a heartbeat I could almost believe the whole door might bow down, splintering at the hinges, to engulf me—chew my bones and spit the husk back into the mud, laughing at the smallness of what it had devoured.
The bronze knocker sneered, rain trailing from its jaws like strings of saliva. In the dark polish of the lower panels I saw myself reflected—warped, tiny, crooked as a shadow. I felt like nothing more than a cast-off scrap beneath that silent threshold.
The tears had dried on my face, leaving my skin tight and stinging from the cold, but the ache in my chest only grew heavier. My heart clenched, slow and deliberate, as if some unseen hand had reached inside and found it wanting. The knowledge came to me like a blade sliding home: I was shut out, stranded before a door that would never open.
I lifted my gaze higher still, to the storm-shrouded sky. The clouds swirled like black smoke, and the lightning lit their underbellies in brief, merciless flashes. My voice crawled from my throat in a hoarse whisper, no longer a prayer but a plea offered to whatever might be listening. "Whoever watches above… whoever still carries wings in this forsaken world… please. I beg you."
The sky gave no answer. The thunder muttered, low and close, like something vast shifting in its sleep. The rain hissed on the stones, and for an instant—only an instant—I thought I heard something beneath it: a sound too soft to name, as if the door itself had drawn a breath.
The long and winding road
That leads to your door
Will never disappear
I've seen that road before
It always leads me here
Lead me to you door
The wild and windy night
That the rain washed away
Has left a pool of tears
Crying for the day
Why leave me standing here?
Let me know the way
Some doors never open. Some only teach you how to knock.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
July 28, 2013
Hugo Hollands, Age 12
The house was loud that afternoon, so loud it felt like the walls were pulsing with borrowed joy. I sat halfway down the stairs, where I could see everything without being seen. The banister was sticky with frosting from some child's hand, the air heavy with the scent of cake, balloons, and the sugary exhaustion of summer. Aunt Odette's voice floated through it all—bright, brittle, and strange. She was laughing in a tone that didn't belong to her, the kind of laugh that only came out when the house was full of people she needed to impress.
It was Harry's tenth birthday. Streamers hung from the ceiling like drooping veins, the kind of cheap foil that shimmered when the light hit it wrong. The living room had been stripped of furniture to make space for the chaos. Parents were drinking lemonade on the patio, their laughter sharp against the pop music that kept skipping between songs from last year's charts. The kids ran between the garden and the house, tracking dirt across the tiles, their sneakers squealing when they turned corners too fast.
I watched them all, my chin on my knees, my back pressed to the wall. I felt nothing. Not envy, not boredom—just that hollow stillness I always carried, the kind that made me feel like glass among the living. They moved as if I wasn't there. I might as well have been a shadow cast by the staircase. A fish, staring in at the aquarium from the outside.
Something smacked the back of my head. I turned, startled, and found Elaine standing there—my cousin, same age, same school, same unspoken rivalry I never asked for. Her hair was tied with a pink ribbon, her cheeks flushed from running.
"Why are you sitting there like that?" she snapped. "You're blocking the way."
"There's nowhere else to sit," I muttered.
"Then go to your room. You're taking up too much space." She said it lightly, but her ribbon kept slipping, and she kept fixing it like someone used to being looked at.
She brushed past me, her perfume all sweetness and cheap soap, and joined her friends. I watched the back of her dress vanish into the blur of children. She didn't look back. She never did.
Odette appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She was carrying Stephen, the youngest—two years old, red-faced and crying because someone took his balloon. She came straight toward me, her heels clicking, her smile already fading.
"Hugo, take him," she said, handing me the squirming child before I could speak. "He keeps running off. Watch him, will you?" She smoothed Stephen's hair first—automatic, practiced—and then was gone, back to her guests and their borrowed charm.
Stephen's little hands clutched at my shirt as he hiccupped against my shoulder. I held him because there was nothing else to do. The noise around us grew until it was a blur—laughter, the slap of feet on tile, the clatter of cutlery, and the relentless cheer of a pop song I didn't know the name of.
No one asked why I wasn't outside. No one wondered if I wanted cake or air or silence. It didn't surprise me. I already knew how invisible I was in this house, how unnecessary. My mother had left me long before this, and my father was a name people whispered like a stain. So why would Odette care?
I sat there on the stairwell, the baby's weight heavy against me, and watched them all. Their faces were bright and empty. Their joy sounded rehearsed. The air was warm and full of frosting, and I wondered how long before someone noticed I wasn't smiling.
Harry came bounding toward me, cheeks flushed, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His shirt clung to him, stained with patches of grass and something that looked like cake icing. He was still laughing from whatever game he'd been caught in, breathing so hard he could barely speak. When he finally stopped in front of me, he grinned wide enough for the gap in his front teeth to show.
"Why aren't you outside with me?" he asked, his voice still trembling from excitement. "Come play."
I looked at him, small chest rising and falling like a bellows, eyes bright enough to make the entire hallway feel alive. I shifted Stephen on my lap, who had gone quiet, thumb in his mouth, heavy against me. "I don't feel like playing," I said. "And someone has to watch Stephen."
"Mom can watch him," Harry argued instantly, brushing the hair from his forehead with his wrist. "Elaine can watch him. I'm the birthday boy, and I want you with me."
The way he said it—so certain, so warm—made something ache in my chest. I smiled faintly, more to reassure him than myself. "That's okay," I said. "I'll just wait here until people start leaving."
He frowned a little, uncertain. "You sure?"
"Yeah," I said. "I'm sure."
He hesitated a second longer, studying me with that quiet worry he had—an expression far too thoughtful for a ten-year-old. Then his grin returned, sudden and bright, like sunlight cutting through a curtain.
"Okay," he said. "Then I'll make them leave quickly so we can open presents together."
I nodded, trying not to let him see how much that meant to me. He turned and ran back toward the garden, his shoes squeaking against the tiles, the faint scent of grass and sugar trailing behind him.
For a moment, I just watched the doorway where he disappeared. The laughter outside rose again, spilling through the open glass doors like a tide, and I could almost hear his voice in it, clearer than the others.
Harry was the only bright thing in this house. The only thing that made it bearable. He wasn't my brother by blood, but he might as well have been. He noticed things nobody else did—when I skipped dinner, when I stayed awake too long, when I went quiet for no reason. He'd nudge me and ask if I was hungry, or crawl into bed without saying anything, keeping still so he wouldn't wake me. He had this habit of copying me, too. The way I tied my shoelaces, the way I held my fork, even the way I brushed my hair when I still bothered brushing it. Sometimes it made me laugh; other times, it made me sad, because I didn't want him to grow into someone like me.
Despite the three years between us, he always felt older, more composed, as if he understood the weight I carried without needing to ask. Maybe that was his gift—he understood without demanding to know why.
If he asked for the world, I'd find a way to give it to him.
I leaned my head against the banister, listening to the hum of celebration beyond the walls. I looked down at Stephen, still sleeping against my arm, and for a second, I imagined how quiet this house would be if everyone disappeared. Just Harry and me, sitting in the garden after dark, the wind carrying the last bits of music away.
The thought felt peaceful. Dangerous, even.
Because sometimes, peace felt like the kind of thing that couldn't last.
I stayed there until the sun began to bend its light through the curtains, watching shadows lengthen across the floor. Outside, the children's laughter started to fade, replaced by the slower, heavier voices of the adults cleaning up. Plastic cups in trash bags. Chairs scraping the patio stones. The world slowly winding down.
And then, faintly, I heard Harry again—his voice somewhere near the back door, calling my name, telling someone to hurry up because I was waiting.
He didn't know that I always would be.
When the last car pulled away and the voices outside thinned into the hum of distant traffic, the house felt hollow again—like the noise had been stripped off its bones. Paper cups lay crushed on the counter, half-eaten cake sat drying in the heat, and the air smelled of sugar gone stale. Odette swept through what was left of the mess, her heels sharp against the tiles, her mouth still shaped in that performance of a smile even though there was no one left to see it.
She took Stephen from my arms without a glance, muttering about how heavy he was getting, and told Harry to take a bath before opening his presents. I didn't argue. I never did. I went upstairs to our room and waited.
The house was quieter there. Only the soft echo of running water, the occasional thud of pipes. I sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, tracing the frayed thread along the blanket's edge. The air was thick with the scent of detergent and dust, the window cracked open just enough to let in the sound of wind through the trees.
I had been living in this house for five years now. Five long years that felt like the same day repeating itself. I'd celebrated one birthday—my first year here—and never again. Odette had made sure of that. She always found a way to remind me I was an accident in her home. If she wasn't criticizing, she was pretending I didn't exist. Sometimes, lately, she'd hand me Stephen to watch, calling it "helping out," as if that counted as kindness. But it wasn't kindness. It was convenience.
Maybe she was a good mother to her own children. Maybe she smiled for them differently. But not for me. Never for me. And I didn't understand why.
What had I done to her?
My father's name still echoed in this house like a bad smell. Maybe that was enough. Maybe my existence reminded her of everything she hated. He was in prison for theft and kidnapping, they said—terrible things I didn't understand, and didn't want to. But I wasn't him. I wanted to scream that truth until the walls cracked. I wanted to climb the highest roof in the city and shout until my throat tore open: I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything.
And maybe—just maybe—my mother would hear me. Maybe she'd come back for me. I'd tell her I wouldn't cause trouble. I'd tell her she wouldn't even notice me. I'd just sit quietly and be good. I'd do anything, anything, if someone would take me from here.
The water stopped. Silence settled heavy over the house, broken only by the soft sound of feet on the hallway tiles. Then the door creaked open, and Harry stepped in.
His hair was wet, droplets sliding down his forehead, darkening the collar of his shirt. He grinned, eyes bright and alive from the warmth of his bath. From the hallway, Odette's voice came sharp and familiar: "Harry! Dry your hair before you catch a cold!"
"Okay!" he shouted back, and shut the door with a grin that made it clear he didn't mean it. He turned to me. "I'm not gonna dry my hair. Let's open the presents first."
He dragged the big gift bag from the corner and plopped it between us on the floor. We sat cross-legged on the worn rug, the smell of wet hair and wrapping paper mixing in the air. His fingers tore eagerly through the paper, the soft ripping sound almost musical after the long quiet.
"Open some with me," he said.
I shook my head. "No, that's not right. You're the birthday boy. You should open them. I'll take the second look."
He frowned. "That doesn't matter."
"It does to me," I said. "If it were me, I'd want to open them myself."
"Okay, okay," he said, giving in with a small laugh.
He started unwrapping again—boxes of cars, small figurines from his favorite cartoon, Lego sets bright enough to hurt the eyes. Each time he opened one, he barely looked at it before passing it to me, as if my approval mattered more than his curiosity.
"You're not even looking at them properly," I said, half smiling.
"I get the idea," he answered simply.
I laughed softly. "Fair enough."
Then he tore open a smaller box wrapped in silver paper. Inside was a magician's starter kit—sleek black packaging, a top hat printed on the front, cards and coins and small props arranged inside like secrets.
Harry wrinkled his nose. "I don't like that. Do you want it?"
I blinked. "Let me see."
He handed it over, and I turned the box in my hands. Something about it caught me—the precision of the cards, the mystery of what it promised. It wasn't just a toy. It was a trick, a secret between reality and something else.
"You're not into this stuff?" I said quietly.
"No," he admitted. "I like the cars and the Lego better. But this one isn't really me. And you—you were really into that magic segment we watched on TV the other day. Maybe you can use it. Just don't tell Mom I gave it to you. Hide it here, and use it when she's not around."
I frowned, guilt tugging at the back of my throat. "It doesn't feel right taking your birthday gift."
He grinned. "Well, it's mine now, right? And I can give it to whoever I want. I want to give it to you."
Something in me stilled. The way he said it—so simple, so sure—made the air feel thicker. I looked at him, hair dripping, cheeks flushed from his bath, the faintest smear of cake icing still near his wrist. The room was dim, the light from the window softening everything, turning his skin gold where it touched.
I set the box down between us, fingers brushing the edge as if afraid to ruin it. "Thank you," I said quietly. "I mean it."
He smiled, wide and proud. "You're welcome."
We sat there a while longer, surrounded by torn paper and the fading hum of laughter from the garden. The world outside had gone still. Evening settled like dust across the floorboards.
I watched the light dim across Harry's face, and for a moment, I thought—if there was such a thing as magic, it might be something as small as this. Two boys in a quiet room, sharing the kind of happiness the rest of the world wouldn't understand.
Later that night, when the house had sunk into its slow, sleeping rhythm, I slipped quietly out of bed. Harry was still, his breathing even, a small patch of moonlight lying across his shoulder. I moved carefully, one foot at a time, until I was sitting on the floor with my back against the frame of the bed. The boards were cold through my shirt, the kind of cold that made you aware of every bone pressing against it.
I lit the little lamp we kept on the nightstand—a dented metal thing with a flickering bulb that buzzed faintly like a trapped insect. Its glow painted the room in a tired yellow. Shadows pooled in the corners. I pulled the magic kit from beneath the bed and set it in front of me, fingers trembling just a little as I opened it.
Inside, everything looked cleaner than it should have—cards wrapped in thin plastic, coins stacked neatly, a folded manual with pictures of hands mid-motion. The paper smelled faintly of ink and something chemical. I opened it flat across the floor, tracing the drawings with my finger. The instructions were simple enough: hide one card behind another, flick the wrist just so, make the movement faster than the eye could follow.
I tried. Once. Twice. The cards slipped. On the fourth try one vanished clean between my fingers—there, not there—and I startled myself with a soft inhale. I tried again and fumbled, but the shape of the motion stayed in my hand.
The magician on television had made it look effortless. His hands had been steady, confident—every motion sharp as light. He was older, sure, but that wasn't what mattered. He must have practiced. Hours, days maybe. That's what it takes to make something beautiful look easy.
At school, when I first joined the volleyball team, I couldn't even serve straight. My coach used to clap his hands, tell me to stop closing my eyes when I hit the ball. It took me months, but now I was good—good enough that he said I had promise. Maybe magic was the same. I just needed time.
I took a slow breath and tried again. Cards between my fingers, wrist loose, motion quick. It didn't work perfectly, but the card flashed from one hand to the other, a little faster this time. My heart jumped. I did it again. Again. The more I tried, the more it began to feel right—the rhythm of it, the sound of the paper against my skin, the tiny gasp I caught from myself when I almost managed it.
Time slipped away without me noticing.
The lamp dimmed and hissed, its glow sinking lower. I was still at it when I heard the first faint sound of the rooster from outside, that cracked morning cry that always came too early. I turned toward the window. The sky was just beginning to pale, streaks of blue and gray pressed against the glass.
My chest tightened.
If Odette found me awake, sitting here with this box, she'd lose her mind. The church was tomorrow—Sunday—and she'd make sure I remembered it. Punishments in this house weren't loud; they were silent, cold, stretched over days. The kind that made you feel small for existing.
I hurried. Cards went back in the box, coins stacked, the manual folded along its creases. My hands shook as I slid the kit back under the bed, pushing it deep enough that the dust caught at my skin. Then I crawled into bed beside Harry, the mattress dipping under my weight.
The room smelled faintly of soap and candle wax, and Harry mumbled something in his sleep, turning over to face the wall. I lay there wide awake, staring at the ceiling. My heart still beat too fast from the excitement, from the quiet wonder of what I'd just done.
I couldn't wait for morning to pass. For church to end. For lunch to be over. I wanted to come back here, shut the door, and try again—faster this time, smoother.
I wanted to make something impossible look real.
The rooster called again, louder now, and I smiled into the half-light. Somewhere inside me, a new kind of hope had started to burn—small, but steady, like a candle that refused to die.
And I remembered that day very vividly.