It's always been there, usually hidden by furniture. You may not find it ever, but you'll always slide towards it. It's so dark. When observed under intense light, it gets darker still. Everything around it continues to fade, only enhancing its presence.
There's no handle or knob and no one is certain how to open it. It's obviously been opened before as it is damaged around its edges. The door itself is small, too small for comfortable entry or exit. On the hottest of days a cool draft can be felt near the base.
The craftsmen who must have built it is surely long gone, the construction too intricate and purposeful to have been constructed here.
Maybe more interesting than the door itself is what lies beyond it, that which no one is certain. Those who previously sought entry were overwhelmed by the weight, unable to even budge it. There are still remnants of tread marks near the top where someone tried to kick it open.
You could never force it open.
Most cannot determine whether it was meant to be pushed or pulled, there are no indications
There are days when you can smell a musty dankness near it, like rusted iron from an ancient vessel. The scent passes quickly though, so quickly you can barely remember.
Sometimes just sitting there fills you with awkward curiosity. It is so unique.
It has never made a sound and has no hinges to creak, relying only on its perfect fitment.
I've considered its taste, expecting something between petrol and chocolate. The chalky surface of it is deterrent.
A wonder to touch, the solidity is comparable to an Oak fortress, inconsistent with its diminutive size.
You want to share it, but most are driven to obsession. Its better to keep it hidden.
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