Reckoning
"Every lock has two prisoners"
The Wound
Your life is a house whose creaks you know by heart, save one room. The one you sealed the night you chose survival. Your mind forgot the lock. Your palm remembers the key. Years pass. You rearrange the hallway so you never face the door. But the frame bows anyway. The door swells. Silence seeps through like water through mortar. Your hand finds the lock. The rust resists, then yields. The door gives. Air escapes – the cold you locked in with him.
The Path
You step through. The air is thick, smells of rust and old fear. He's there. Bare feet on concrete. Arms locked around the fallen beam. Shoulders bearing weight that should have crushed him. He hasn't moved. His eyes found you the moment you opened the door. Behind him, the rest of the collapse, still pressing unhurried. Your eyes find his. Neither of you can move. Something in your chest – not pity. Older. The vigil you abandoned, he kept, long after you forgot him. The strength it took to seal him here is nothing beside the strength it took him to remain. Your hand reaches towards him. The words come: Rest now. I will bear it for both of us. A cold you had held at arm's length floods your chest. Your knees almost buckle. He looks at you. For the first time, you look back. He releases the beam and his shoulders drop. Behind him, the wall surrenders. Light pours in. Neither of you looks away. When you walk back through the hallway, the house no longer creaks the same way. The floor no longer braces against your step. The weight has moved, from behind you to within you, and your spine remembers how to bear it.
The Shadow
The door can open. The body need not follow. The Threshold Priest opens the door. Sees the child. Says the right words: I see you. I know what happened. Rest now. His foot lifts, returning to the safe wood of the hallway. He does not cross. Does not kneel. His hands stay at the doorframe, already composing the story of what he saw. He walks back with his story. Polishes it. Tells it. But the words shine brighter than the truth they replaced. He writes about the room. Speaks about the room. Visitors come to congratulate his bravery. None ask what he left inside. The boy is still there, still holding. The door now open, surrounded by an audience who believes he's already been saved. ⧫ His hand moves toward the lock. Stops. He cannot face what waits inside. His body remembers: his own breathing that night, ragged. The child's voice asking Why are you closing the door? He tells himself the room isn't real. Then: the house is the problem. But the voice hums regardless. He strikes a match. Photographs curl. The rug blackens. He runs barefoot into the dark, telling himself the glow behind him is sunrise. He rebuilds in a new city with new walls, using the same old hands. One night – the doorknob. The same grain against his palm. The room he burned was never in the house.
The Cut
Who keeps vigil in the room you sealed?
RECKONING
Every lock has two prisoners
Reckoning
"Every lock has two prisoners"
The Wound
Your life is a house whose creaks you know by heart, save one room. The one you sealed the night you chose survival. Your mind forgot the lock. Your palm remembers the key. Years pass. You rearrange the hallway so you never face the door. But the frame bows anyway. The door swells. Silence seeps through like water through mortar. Your hand finds the lock. The rust resists, then yields. The door gives. Air escapes – the cold you locked in with him.
The Path
You step through. The air is thick, smells of rust and old fear. He's there. Bare feet on concrete. Arms locked around the fallen beam. Shoulders bearing weight that should have crushed him. He hasn't moved. His eyes found you the moment you opened the door. Behind him, the rest of the collapse, still pressing unhurried. Your eyes find his. Neither of you can move. Something in your chest – not pity. Older. The vigil you abandoned, he kept, long after you forgot him. The strength it took to seal him here is nothing beside the strength it took him to remain. Your hand reaches towards him. The words come: Rest now. I will bear it for both of us. A cold you had held at arm's length floods your chest. Your knees almost buckle. He looks at you. For the first time, you look back. He releases the beam and his shoulders drop. Behind him, the wall surrenders. Light pours in. Neither of you looks away. When you walk back through the hallway, the house no longer creaks the same way. The floor no longer braces against your step. The weight has moved, from behind you to within you, and your spine remembers how to bear it.
The Shadow
The door can open. The body need not follow. The Threshold Priest opens the door. Sees the child. Says the right words: I see you. I know what happened. Rest now. His foot lifts, returning to the safe wood of the hallway. He does not cross. Does not kneel. His hands stay at the doorframe, already composing the story of what he saw. He walks back with his story. Polishes it. Tells it. But the words shine brighter than the truth they replaced. He writes about the room. Speaks about the room. Visitors come to congratulate his bravery. None ask what he left inside. The boy is still there, still holding. The door now open, surrounded by an audience who believes he's already been saved. ⧫ His hand moves toward the lock. Stops. He cannot face what waits inside. His body remembers: his own breathing that night, ragged. The child's voice asking Why are you closing the door? He tells himself the room isn't real. Then: the house is the problem. But the voice hums regardless. He strikes a match. Photographs curl. The rug blackens. He runs barefoot into the dark, telling himself the glow behind him is sunrise. He rebuilds in a new city with new walls, using the same old hands. One night – the doorknob. The same grain against his palm. The room he burned was never in the house.
The Cut
Who keeps vigil in the room you sealed?