The closet door was open. Just a crack. The same crack from Mira’s drawing.

I installed a deadbolt on the closet. Heavy steel. The kind you’d put on a storm shelter. I tested it myself—solid. Then I sat in the hallway with a flashlight and a hammer.

Inside, I found no clothes, no shelves, no drywall. Just a hallway. Long. Lit by a single bulb at the far end. And standing under that bulb, facing away from me, was a woman in a blue dress. The same dress my wife was buried in.

I laughed. I bought her a nightlight shaped like a moon.

The door is in you.

I am writing this so that someone finds it. If you are reading this PDF, do not look for the locked door in your own house. Do not listen to the knocking. Do not wonder what you’ve hidden from yourself.