Manifest

The writer wrote, searching for the freedom of her once youthful mind, "A door of power and intrigue rose behind her".

She didn't look but knew it hadn't.

The door behind her was already there. It had been for two hundred years, since the house was built, since the street was named by the Duke who owned the land after his daughter - one of several daughters' streets in her postcode.

The duke and his daughters had long since passed; the houses sold on along with the original deeds for the lands on which they stood. The door had remained, unchanged except for several decades of paint on one side and polish on the other.

The writer's youth nor it's mind had emerged.

However, it would have benefited her still to turn and look at the door.

Something of power and intrigue awaited.