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The Door.

She walked along the street. It was dark and the mist gathered menacingly around the tops of the street lamps. She quickened her pace, shoes beating against the ground and the ground beating back. Turning the corner she entered a narrow alleyway and stopped outside a heavy wooden door. The number 39 faintly shone in the dim light, the door knocker shaped like a fierce lion hung heavily underneath. Her gloved hand implemented the lion; a brief wait, breath vapourising and rising through the air to join the congregation at the street lamps.

Creaking as it went, the door opened revealing a blissful warmth, a friendly face smiling out. Stepping inside, the cold dark world of iron and stone was left to wait on the doorstep. Inside, the atmosphere was thick and rich and soulful. It smelt like tea and velvet and took her by the hand.

It was home.

By Amy Jones.


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