The Wool Woman At The Door

It's only a door, until you stand in front of it with a choice in your hands.

She stood at the threshold with the wind caught in her sleeve. Not quite in, not quite gone. The doorway breathed like something alive, pulling at the edge of her shawl, whispering the names of women who had passed through it before.

In her hands, she held fleece still damp from the spring melt - washed, cleaned but not carded, not yet spun. It smelled of rain and something older, the animal memory still clinging in places she hadn't tried to scrub away.

The house behind her was quiet, too quiet. Not empty, but silenced. Somewhere a kettle had once whistled. Somewhere a child had once sung.

She had not crossed the threshold in months. Or was it years? The time between leaving and returning had stretched like wool pulled too thin - almost breaking, never snapped.

Still she hesitated.

One foot on worn stone, the other in wild grass. The field had changed while she was gone. The gate hung lower now. The hollyhocks had gone to seed.

But the door....the door had waited. Not faithfully, not warmly. Just waited.

She reached out - not for the doorknob, but for the lintel. Pressed her palm to it. Felt the wood press back. This was the place she had woven her name once. A girl's name. Or maybe it was never spoken aloud.

The fleece in her arms shifted, heavy with choice. Was this the return? Or the beginning?