by Marisa Thornwell
Dawn broke with a brand new door standing in the middle of the field. No hinges or handle, and no reason for being there at all. It seemed to have grown out of the earth overnight, the wood worn pale as if it had survived decades in a place it had never set foot.
He walked towards it, his boots still wet from the morning dew, the silence of the field deafening. This time of day was usually bustling with life, bugs whirring, birds threading the morning with their calls, but today, the world was holding its breath. Even the wind seemed to be on pause.
As he got closer, the door felt even older, not just visually, but in an aura-type of way. It felt like it remembered things he didn’t. Like it had been waiting for him.
He walked around it, once, twice, then a third time. Just tracing the outline of a door that had no right to be there. On the far side, the air changed, it felt thicker. Like something was being held. Like the space behind the door was a different morning altogether. The grass on this side seemed to be bending in a direction the wind wasn’t moving.
He reached out to touch it and stopped. His hand was an inch away. He could feel a warmth radiating from the door, pulsing. Like a heartbeat. And his own heart picked up the rhythm.
He didn’t touch it.
He didn’t open it.
He didn’t need to.
Because some new beginnings aren’t about trumpets and fanfare.
Some just appear. In a field of grass. And when you see them, you know everything has already changed. That a new beginning has started, just by them being there.
As the sun climbed in the sky, the door cast a long, thin shadow over the field. He stepped back. Was he intrigued or warned away? He wasn’t sure.
About the Author
Marisa is a student writer and poet from South Dakota who draws inspiration from farm life, quiet mornings, and the small stories found in rural places