Stark Reality

It was nothing more than a wooden door bearing a silver handle and dark, swirling grain she had traced no less than a thousand times. She knew that even before her fingers touched the deathly cold of the handle, as if it had never held any magic at all.

Hand dropping limply by her side, she turned away from the silent accusations. His parting words rang in the echoes of her mind. It was impossible to open, to see nothing but coats and scarves, boots collecting cobwebs. The cold of the handle would be nothing compared to the lukewarm walls standing firm under her touch.

The magic remained in her memories, and she dared not tarnish them with the stark reality of the truth.