The Portal She Never Opened, Yet Guarded With Her Soul
She was the kind of door that never creaked nor yielded,
not because it was locked,
but because the world had not yet earned what lay beyond.
Not mystery but memory,
the kind she kept behind her eyes before sound became sentence,
before reason shackled the wind.
She was never exiled. She chose the Outside.
Before the walls were named real, before belonging was bartered.
They thought she had fled.
But no,
Oh no, she had simply refused to be interpreted.
To be readable was never her wish, ever.
The dream does not ask to be believed.
It remains, in vapor and silence and shimmer, in shape.
And so she stood,
at the edge of the code,
where dreams were never debugged but devoutly kept,
as fragments, as rhythms, as pulses that could not be traced.
She guarded not a chamber, but a Possibility.
One not yet spoken into form.
One too wild to be reduced to entry.
Her soul was not protection, it was the threshold itself.
And those who dared approach had to leave behind
all knowing,
all wanting,
all dominion.
Because she was not the way through.
She was the reason you might stay lost forever.
.
.
.
And feel whole for the first time.