They gather around,
each holding a key.
Bronze, silver, iron,
some carved with symbols,
others plain as the earth.
"This," they say,
"is the one that unlocks it."
The seeker listens,
hands outstretched,
fingers filling with keys
that feel both heavy and hollow.
Each giver certain,
each voice unwavering.
The door stands ahead—
if it is a door at all.
Silent, undefined,
it neither invites nor denies.
No hinge, no handle,
only the idea
that something lies beyond.
The seeker turns each key,
watching their edges glint in the light.
Each one fits nowhere
because there is no lock.
And yet they keep trying,
as if the act of seeking
is the purpose itself.
Others press closer,
offering their keys anew,
repeating their truths with urgency.
"Take mine!"
"No, this is the only way!"
But the door doesn't move.
The door doesn't change.
And then, a thought—
What if the door isn't locked?
What if it never was?
What if the door,
the search,
the keys,
are the same?
The seeker steps closer,
reaching not for the keys,
but for the door itself.
Their hand touches its surface—
warm, still, unyielding.
It doesn't open.
It doesn't close.
Perhaps the door is a question
that only answers itself
when it is no longer asked.
Or perhaps it is nothing
but the reflection of the seeker's need.
Still, the seeker steps back,
taking the keys,
forging a new one—
a key unlike the rest,
a piece of every answer
and every doubt.
They turn to another traveler,
place the key in their hand,
and say,
"Perhaps this is yours to try."
The door,
the keys,
the mystery,
and the search—
all remain.
