THE CORRIDOR OF CLOSED DOORS

I am the silent spine of this house, the long, narrow corridor that connects every room. The floorboards beneath me have felt the hurried steps of countless secrets and the slow, dragging feet of many sorrows. I have no windows, no light of my own, but I remember everything. My memory is a collection of closed doors, and behind each one is a world of stories.

That first door on the left, with the peeling paint. I remember a father’s booming laugh coming from behind it and the sound of a child’s prayers whispered on a winter night. I recall the same door slamming shut with a force that rattled my very being, a silent argument that spoke louder than words. It was a door of both joy and disappointment, a threshold between hope and regret.

The door across from it, with the small brass nameplate. It holds memories of a mother’s tired sighs and the rustle of turning pages late into the night. It remembers the muffled sobs after a phone call from far away and the quiet promises made to an empty room. It was a door of resilience and love that endured despite distance, a place where a woman held her world together with fragile threads of hope.

At the end of the hall is the door to the master bedroom. It remembers the slow, rhythmic beat of two hearts sleeping as one and the quiet conversations of a couple growing old together. It recalls the news that changed everything, the promises made to a future that would never come to be. It was a door that witnessed the fullness of a life, a testament to a love that deepened with each passing year.

Now, the corridor is silent. The doors are all closed, their stories finished for now. But I remember. I remember the arguments, the prayers, the promises. I am a museum of memories, a silent keeper of the lives lived within these walls. My purpose is not to open these doors but to simply remember what lies behind them.