The door stands open, and the night hangs there like a small painting—proof that outside persists, though no one is invited. The room has prepared itself too carefully: plates lined like coins to settle a debt, a chair that has learned my shape in advance, flowers practicing a brightness nobody believes. On the carpet the cat lies like a sealed envelope; its eyes flicker and I receive no message.
Everything here has already occurred. The air carries the politeness of after, the crumbs of a confession postponed. In the doorway the moon thins to a withheld answer. If I walk toward it, the path narrows; if I stay, the room draws in around my name. So I keep still with the cat, let the colors perform their soft deception, and understand that some doors never close yet do not permit passage.
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