There are doors that I will not open. Ripped from their hinges and thrown aside. Passages barred from entry, from exit. They once swung free in the warm breeze, the scuttle of feet beneath the mantle we shared. But those corridors and wooden floors, the bouncing echoes of laughter, have long since become mute. And though I occasionally hear the muttering memories from beneath the cracks I no longer approach the handle. It is better this way. I have to believe it is better this way. For me? For you.