The door had the look of time upon it. The wood was stained dark through years of myriad hands forcing it open and closed, the grain slightly raised and then worn smooth again by rain, wind, snow, sun. The metal hardware showed signs of rust; flakes peeled from the hinges and corrosion obscured the original intricate details added by a smith long-dead. The corners were worn. They had been scuffed and bumped until they were well-rounded, leaving small gaps between door and frame.
Lisa took a deep breath. Her lower lip was raw from her nervous gnawing and the chill autumn wind; it carried a hint of snow to her delicate nose. Luminous green eyes looked up at the door, partially obscured from her view by the long, brown hair that blew freely in the wind. She pushed her hair out of her face with a pale, slender hand. Inhale. Exhale.
Coming here was a mistake, she knew. She would not be accepted, nor welcomed. The door was an impenetrable barrier between past and future; it was her present, nothing less, and potentially so much more. It intimidated her in its solidness, permanence, age. It held her with a promise.
If not here, then where? Where else did she have to be right now, at this moment? There was nothing for her on this side of the door but memories, fleeting thoughts she wished the wind could carry away. There was nowhere else. All she had to do was breathe.
Hiking her bag over one shoulder, Lisa grasped the doorknob firmly, turned, and pushed.