Somewhere mid-bath he admits to himself that if this excursion proves unsuccessful he will give up on the entire endeavor. Return Sweet Sorrows to the library and try to forget about it and turn his attention back to his thesis. Maybe visit his mom on his way back to school for an aura cleansing and a bottle of wine.
Maybe his story began and ended that day in that alleyway. Maybe his story is about missed opportunities that cannot be recaptured.
He closes his eyes, blocking out the mirror Zacharys.
He sees those two words again in their serifed typeface.
Not yet.
He wonders why he believes it because someone wrote it down in a book. Why he believes anything at all and where to draw mental lines, where to stop suspending his disbelief. Does he believe that the boy in the
book is him? Well, yes. Does he believe painted doors on walls can open as though they were real and lead to other places entirely?
He sighs and sinks below the surface, remaining under until he has to return for oxygen-related reasons.
Zachary gets out of the tub before the water has cooled, a decadent bathtub miracle. The fluffy hotel robe makes him think he should stay in fancy hotels more often and then he remembers how much this single night cost him and decides to enjoy it while he can and avoid the minibar.
A muffled ding from his bag signals a text message: a photo from Kat of a half-finished blue-and-bronze-striped scarf with accompanying text that reads almost done!
He texts back Looks great! Thanks again, see you soon and starts steaming his suit. It doesn’t take much time though his shirt proves to be a bigger problem and he gives up after a few passes, figuring he’ll leave his jacket or his vest on for the entire evening so the back of the shirt can remain unpresentable.
Mirror Zachary looks downright dashing and regular Zachary wonders if the lighting and the mirrors are in an attractiveness conspiracy with each other. He forgets what he looks like without his glasses, he so rarely wears his contact lenses.
It’s not a specifically literary costume, but even without the mask he feels like a character in his black suit with its near-invisible pinstripes. He bought the suit two years ago and hasn’t worn it much but it’s well-tailored and fits properly. It looks better now, paired with a charcoal shirt instead of the white one he’s worn it with before.
He leaves his hat and gloves and scarf, considering he’s only going across the street, and keeps his mask in his pocket along with a printout of his ticket even though it implied he could give his name at the door. He brings his wallet but leaves his phone, not wanting to take his everyday world along.
Zachary takes Sweet Sorrows from his bag and puts it in the pocket of his coat and then switches it to the inside pocket of his suit jacket where it is just small enough to fit. Perhaps the book will act like some sort of beacon and draw whatever or whoever it is he’s looking for to him.
He believes in books, he thinks as he leaves the room. That much he knows for sure.
There is a door in the back of a teahouse. A pile of crates blocks it and the common thought amongst the staff is that the door leads to a disused closet that is likely occupied by mice. Late one night a new assistant attempting to make herself useful will open it to see if the crates will fit inside and she will discover that it is not a storage closet at all.
There is a door at the bottom of a star-covered sea, resting in the ruins of a sunken city. On one dark-as-night day a diver armed with portable breath and light will find this door and open it and slip into a pocket of air along with a number of very confused fish.
There is a door in a desert, covered in sand. Its worn stone surface loses its detail in sandstorms as the time passes. Eventually it will be excavated and relocated to a museum without ever being opened.
There are numerous doors in varying locations. In bustling cities and remote forests. On islands and on mountaintops and in meadows. Some are built into buildings: libraries or museums or private residences, hidden in basements or attics or displayed like artwork in front parlors. Others stand freely without the assistance of supplemental architecture. Some are used with hinge-loosening frequency and others remain undiscovered and unopened and more have simply been forgotten, but all of them lead to the same location.
(How this is accomplished is a matter of much debate and no one has of yet discovered a satisfying answer. There is much disagreement on this and related subjects, including the precise location of the space. Some will argue passionately for one continent or another but such arguments often result in impasses or admissions that perhaps the space itself moves, the stone and the sea and the books shifting beneath the surface of the earth.)
Each door will lead to a Harbor on the Starless Sea, if someone dares to open it.
Little distinguishes them from regular doors. Some are simple. Others are elaborately decorated. Most have doorknobs waiting to be turned though others have handles to be pulled.
These doors will sing. Silent siren songs for those who seek what lies behind them.
For those who feel homesick for a place they’ve never been to.
Those who seek even if they do not know what (or where) it is that they are seeking.
Those who seek will find.
Their doors have been waiting for them.
But what happens next will vary.
Sometimes, someone finds a door and opens it and peers inside only to close it again.