The Door That Remembers Closing

Every threshold holds two directions at once. Walk through a doorway and something forgets you, some arrangement of air and light that had your shape just a moment before. The house does not grieve this. It rearranges. But the question lives in the wood: which crossing was the real one, the entering or the leaving. Both feel like arrival from inside the motion. A room once left becomes, slowly, a theory. The dust settles into the geometry of absence, patient, exact.