The first time I noticed the door, I was still in that gauzy haze of early love where everything feels lighter and more colorful. Mike had invited me over to his house for dinner — his house, not just the usual restaurants or my apartment. He owned a modest little ranch-style place on the edge of town, neat and quiet, with a fenced yard where Rocky bounded around like a kid let loose at recess.

Mike grilled salmon that night and played an old soul record while I chopped vegetables in the kitchen. It was one of those evenings that made you imagine what life could be like if you simply stayed — if the workday ended with this exact kind of comfort, this rhythm of chopping and stirring while someone hummed along to Marvin Gaye in the next room.

At some point, I went looking for a vase for the flowers I’d brought. I opened a hallway closet, then another. That’s when I saw the door at the very end of the hall. Heavy oak, darker than the others, with a brass handle that looked older, like it had been there before the house itself.

I tried the handle casually. It didn’t budge. Locked.