The Room Without a Door
Eleanor lived in a room with no door.
It had windows, yes—narrow ones, smudged with time, through which she could see slivers of the world outside. A boy kicking a ball. An old woman feeding pigeons. Trees that knew how to sway with the wind, unafraid of falling.
Inside, her room was safe. It had books stacked like barricades. It had a couch shaped by the weight of her sitting. It had rules etched into the walls:
Don't speak unless spoken to.
Mistakes are proof you're not ready.
Dreams are fragile; better to leave them untouched.
These rules weren't hers, not really. They were passed down like antique china, inherited through words that echoed in her mind: You're not good with people. You always mess things up. It's better to stay where you're comfortable.
And so, Eleanor stayed. Years turned like soft pages. She applied for jobs and withdrew her applications. She practiced speeches in the mirror and swallowed them whole. She loved people from afar and convinced herself it wasn't real love unless it was returned without asking.
One day, during a thunderstorm, a sharp wind blew open a window she had long thought painted shut. Rain swept in like a wild idea. Papers flew. Books toppled. And from the chaos, something caught her eye.
A small scrap of a magazine she didn't remember owning. On it, a quote:
"The walls we build to protect ourselves are often the same ones that keep us from living."
She sat for a long time, holding that soggy paper, staring at the open window. The wind smelled like things she didn't know the names for. It frightened her. It thrilled her.
The next day, she moved one book. Then another. She pulled the couch aside. Behind it, hidden for years, she found something curious: the faint outline of a door.
Her breath caught. Not because she hadn't believed there was a way out—but because she hadn't believed she deserved to look for one.
She touched the outline. Her fingers trembled. She half expected it to vanish. But it held. A shape. A possibility.
It took her days to carve around it, peeling away years of wallpaper and stories told in fear. But one morning, with the light at just the right angle, she pushed—and the door creaked open.
Outside, the world did not cheer. No one noticed. The pigeons still squabbled. The trees still swayed. But Eleanor stepped forward, barefoot, blinking in the sun.
She had thought the door would lead her somewhere else.
But it didn't.
It led her back into her own life—this time, without apology.
And the room?
It stayed behind.
She didn't need it anymore.
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"Wisdom begins with wonder." - Socrates
"Learning happens thru gentleness."
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