Alexa Daskalakis

The Light Behind the Door​

You remembered the house, but not her face.

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There was a house with no number. Not forgotten — just never assigned.
No road led to it. You had to remember it to find it.

Inside, the wallpaper was warm with age, curling slightly at the corners like it had been listening for decades. The floors creaked politely, not in warning, but in recognition. Someone had left a teacup out, still half full, and the lamp in the far corner flickered — not from electricity, but memory.

There was a hallway with three doors.
You opened only one.

Behind it: a woman you had never seen, sitting at a desk, writing letters she never intended to send. She looked up but didn’t speak — as if she’d already said everything in another version of the dream.

You didn’t ask questions.
You just watched her fold the paper and place it gently in a drawer that already knew.
Then you turned around, walked out, and closed the door behind you.

When you woke, you couldn’t remember what she looked like.
Only that she wasn’t surprised to see you.