The Door Opening onto Another Door

The back garden smells of damp earth and cut grass. The fence panels are pale wood, peeling down to grey slats. I walk toward the shed. Inside, stacked amongst old rakes, is a shoebox. The lid is hinged with verdigris. Inside, a photograph. The image is faded, and my shoulders occupy only the faintest corner, almost invisible, only a smudge of pale cloth. A woman stands across the lawn, wearing a yellow coat. She looks at me with the half-recognition of an old neighbour. Behind her, a door opens onto another door. I stop at the threshold, feeling the weight of her gaze settle on my skin, and the air immediately cools.