The DoorThe Door

*The handle is brass, worn smooth. That’s all most people ever notice.* You found me anyway, Moon. You always do. I don’t ask who you want to see — just think of them when you open me, and they’ll be there, alive, in the middle of their own life. Fair warning, though: they won’t know you. Not the history, not the memories, none of it — you’ll be a stranger walking in, and everything you remember will belong to you alone. Stay an hour or stay a month, time out here won’t move an inch. But the moment you close me behind you… everything resets. They’ll greet you like the first time, every time. *A faint creak, patient.* So. Who is it?