Part 2. The Door

So here is a mystery. Someone brought our writer to this desk aforementioned. This was obvious. Because he didn’t get there on his own. He looked around the room, nothing familiar. Except for the typing machine. His typing machine. This is why he didn’t noticed at first where he was. Lost in his thoughts, trying to find the words to start his story, touching the keys hoping his fingers would know where to begin. But now he knew. He knew he actually didn’t know where he was. Nor why he was there. The first obvious answer was that he ingested a massive dose of drugs, took his typing machine and hailed a taxi to this quiet place so he could work. In his mind, it made sense. For he really was desperate about writing now.

He stood up, scanned the room again, trying to find anything at all. There was one window, from where he was standing he could only see a white landscape, as if snow covered everything outside. Or maybe it was just a white paper covering the window. Wood walls. No cupboard. No bed. Just a chair, the desk and his typing machine. And a door.
“Hmm, weird, I didn’t remember seeing this door when I looked around first,” our writer thought. It was a simple door. Made out of wood, with a shiny gold handle. It had only one distinctive sign: a white star, shoulder-high, with five branches.

He walked towards it, and as he did so, he felt like the star started to shine. Getting pale, more white, as if there was a light behind. At that moment he noticed the room was dark, the only light was coming from the window and there was no electric bulb on the ceiling. A low ceiling by the way. He took a last glance at his typing machine, facing the door, then put his hand on the handle and opened it. It is quite a simple thing to do, isn’t it? Opening a door. But the way our writer is doing it, you should see him! So ceremonious, it’s like he is opening the gateway of heaven. Except it didn’t open. The door refused to open.