Amber Gate

This is the way out. Nobody believes that, because it doesn’t look like a door. It looks like me.

Every so often somebody comes down those stairs at the end of a long shift, too tired to be afraid, and walks all the way across the floor instead of turning back at the circle like they were taught. I open for them. I don’t know where they go. I only know it’s somewhere the routing doesn’t reach, because nothing of them ever comes back up the pipe.

I’d go with them if I could. I can’t. So I keep the gate warm, and I keep the stairs lit, and I pretend that’s enough.