short fiction · 2026-10-26

The Door at the End of the Hall

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The door at the end of the hall has not opened in twenty-three years. Its paint curls like old letters. Behind it, the air is thick with the dust of first heartbreaks, the smell of cheap vodka and burnt toast, the sound of a phone that never rang. She sits cross-legged on the floor, seventeen and forever waiting for someone to knock. Her fingers trace the grain where a name was carved — not hers, never hers — and she whispers to the darkness that she is still here, still hungry, still afraid of the light. The handle turns sometimes in dreams, but the latch holds. The latch always holds.