The Door That Closes

PART ONE: THE DOOR

Clare found the door behind the coats. It was small. Behind it was cold. She put her hand on the cold. It was solid. She pushed. It opened.

She went through.

She came back. "There's a world," she said.

Ed said: "Okay."

Jules said: "Take me."

Cat said: "I'm coming too."

They went. All four of them. Through the door. Into the cold.

PART TWO: THE LOSS

The world was called the Hollows. It was flat and white and empty except for some shapes in the distance. Buildings, maybe. Or ruins. Hard to tell.

The Old One came on the third day. He was big and golden and old.

"Are you here to help us?" Clare asked.

"I don't know," he said.

That was the first time any of them had heard an answer like that. In stories, the wise old creature always knows. In stories, the lion always knows. But the Old One did not know.

The Lady in Grey came too. She wore a gray coat. She had no weapon. She had no army. She had only a voice, quiet and steady.

"Everyone has to choose," she said.

Jules chose her. Not dramatically. Not with a speech. He just walked over and said: "You give me better things." And she nodded and he was hers.

Ed watched him go. He did not try to stop him. He was tired. Tired of being the oldest. Tired of choosing. Tired of the cold.

Cat stayed with the Old One. "I'll help you," she said. And the Old One said: "You don't have to." And she said: "I know. But I will."

Clare stood in the middle. She could go with Ed back through the door. Or she could stay. Or she could go with Cat. Or she could find Julian.

She sat down. She thought.

"I don't know," she said.

It was unusual. Clare always knew. She was the one who found the door. The one who believed in the Old One. The one who said: we have to help.

Now she said: I don't know.

And the not-knowing sat between them like a fifth person.

PART THREE: THE CHOOSING

Ed went back alone. He stood in front of the door and put his hand on the handle and looked into the dark.

He did not know if he should go in or out.

He waited. He did not move.

Inside the Hollows, Cat tended to small things. She gathered herbs from under the snow. She warmed injured animals—small birds, a fox with a wounded leg. The Old One watched her. He did not help. He could not help. He was old and slow and his magic was fading, like everything else in the Hollows.

"You don't have to do this," he said.

Cat said: "I know."

"You will get cold."

"I know."

"You will be lonely."

Cat looked at him. Her face was red from the cold. Her nose was running. Her fingers were raw. She smiled.

"I know," she said.

Clare did not choose. Day by day passed. The snow did not stop. The sky did not clear. The Old One grew slower. Cat grew colder. And Clare sat by the door—in the Hollows, on the Hollows' side, close enough to reach through but not quite committing.

Sometimes she reached through. Sometimes she pulled back.

Ed waited in the room on the other side. He sat on the floor. He listened. Sometimes the door opened—just a crack. Cat's face, pale and cold. Sometimes Clare's face, unsure and open and so, so tired.

Jules did not call. He never called.

PART FOUR: THE DOOR CLOSES

Ed waited.

Days passed. Then weeks. The door opened sometimes. Cat came through, bringing snow in her pockets and stories in her voice. She stayed for an hour, maybe two. Then she went back.

"Will you come with me?" Ed asked.

Cat looked at him. She looked at the door. She looked at the Hollows, gray and cold and endless behind her.

"Not yet," she said.

"Maybe not ever," Ed said.

Cat did not answer. She kissed Ed on the forehead. She went back through the door. It closed.

Clare came sometimes too. She never stayed long. She would stand in the doorway, look at Ed, look back at the Hollows, and then leave without a word.

Once she said: "I think I'm disappearing."

"Here?" Ed asked.

"No. There. In the Hollows. Every time I go back, I'm a little less... solid. Like I'm being replaced."

"By what?"

Clare shook her head. "I don't know."

She did not come the next week. Or the week after.

Cat came less often too. Her visits grew shorter. Her face grew paler. When she smiled, it was thinner, harder to hold.

Ed stopped waiting every day. He would sit by the door for an hour, maybe two. Then he would cook dinner. Then he would sit and read. Then he would sit by the door again.

The door stayed closed more often than it opened.

In the end—there was no dramatic end. No final scene. No resolution.

Ed sat alone in the room. The door was closed. His hand was on the handle.

He did not know if he should open it or leave it.

Outside, the weather was ordinary. Not winter. Not spring. Just gray. Just English. Just the kind of day that asks nothing of you and offers nothing in return.

The door did not open.