Through the Door

There’s a room in a house that doesn’t belong to anyone now.

The door is locked.

Inside, music still plays:

A warped record, looping something

almost familiar.

It’s frozen in time, in a moment.

You can press your ear to it.

You’ll hear laughter, the clink of glass, a voice saying wait, but it never finishes.

You were there, once.

Maybe.

The knob won’t turn.

No one remembers what the key looked like.

But the music keeps going with you standing on the other side.

Like it doesn’t know you left.