Schrödinger’s Door
Schrödinger’s Door
I found it leaning into the afternoon,
a red door so weathered
it seemed to be remembering itself—
paint peeling in slow, whispered curls,
the wood bowed like an old man
nodding off between stories.
Vines traced across the surface
in thin, wandering lines—
the kind that seem to crawl
only when you’re not looking.
Not enough to hold anything back,
yet just enough to hint
that time has been touching this place
for longer than anyone remembers.
And yet—
I felt the faint hum of elsewhere.
As if this sagging threshold
had once slipped out of a story
I read long ago—
something with lantern-lit hallways
and impossible rooms—
the kind of tale that leaves behind
a soft ache of remembering
even when its title is long forgotten.
Then—maybe—
I thought I heard a bird in the distance,
though I couldn't be sure.
A quick, passing dimming of light
skimmed across the red paint—
a shadow, perhaps—
or simply my mind
stirring its own possibilities.
Enough to make me wonder
what else might be hovering
just outside of certainty.
Standing before it,
I thought of Schrödinger—
how a thing can be two things at once,
how reality waits for us
to choose which version to believe.
Perhaps this is such a door:
decayed and enchanted,
broken and full of secret breath.
So I leaned forward,
my hand almost reaching
for the warm, chipped red—
and for a moment
felt time hesitate—
as if asking
whether I was ready
for the destiny
I had already called forth
by daring to imagine it.