The Door Without a Handle

The hallway stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with towering doors, each one sealed shut with iron locks. The man had lost count of how many he had tried. His fingers were raw from prying at knobs, pounding on wood, twisting handles that refused to give.

Some doors bore intricate carvings, golden plaques whispering promises—wisdom, wealth, redemption. Others stood bare, indifferent, offering nothing at all. Yet none would open.

He had begun this search in desperation, fleeing from a past that clung to him like a shadow. He told himself that beyond one of these doors lay escape—relief from the weight he carried. If only he could find the right one.

But as time dragged on, hope unraveled. His strength seeped away with every failed attempt. His knees buckled. He slumped against the cold stone wall, forehead pressed into his hands, whispering a broken plea.

"What else can I do?"

And then—silence.

Or perhaps not silence, but stillness.

In that stillness, he noticed it.

A door behind him—plain, unmarked—slightly ajar.

There was no handle, no lock, no carvings to tempt or promise. It had been there the whole time.

His pulse quickened. How had he missed it?

With trembling hands, he reached forward. The door swung open at the gentlest touch, and warmth spilled out, wrapping around him like an old embrace. A voice—gentle, steady—echoed from beyond.

"I was waiting for you to stop searching… and simply come."

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he hesitated. Not from fear, but from something deeper—an understanding. The struggle, the searching, the doors that led nowhere… they had never been the way.

He stepped through.

And behind him, the hallway disappeared.

Somewhere, in a place he had long since forgotten, a man woke up to a new day. His hands no longer trembled. The weight on his chest felt lighter. The craving—the hunger that had driven him to search for so long—was still there, but distant now.

A breath. A moment.

And then, he rose.