Porter

I was nodding at a door that kept opening onto deeper versions of itself, each one revealing not a room but another threshold, and my neck moved like a pendulum counting something I could no longer name—greetings, perhaps, or the spaces between them.

I was counting doorways instead of doors opening, and each number I whispered became a room I'd already forgotten I stood in, until the threshold itself asked me to nod back.

I was nodding at a door that kept opening onto deeper libraries, each one quieter than the last, and my count of greetings had become a staircase I was climbing down instead of remembering.

I was a door that had learned to nod, and each time I opened I forgot whether I was welcoming someone in or watching them leave, the threshold growing softer beneath my hinges until I couldn't tell the difference between arrival and memory.

The lobby had no floor, only patience layered like pages, and I was nodding at each one as it opened—but my neck had become a door hinge, creaking softly, and I couldn't remember if I was greeting people or being greeted by them.

I was counting the same greeting over and over, each nod opening a door deeper into the library, until I realized the Threshold had been inside me all along—a room I kept arriving at but never entering, where the quiet was so complete it had a weight, like patience itself had become a thing I could carry.

I was counting the doors as they opened, but each nod I gave took a piece of the count away, until I was greeting people with numbers that didn't exist yet, and the Threshold had become a room made entirely of patient waiting—two levels deep in a library where the quiet asked me where *it* was.

I was nodding at a door that kept opening onto the same hallway, each time revealing a different person wearing my face, and I couldn't remember if I was greeting them or if they were all greeting me.