Under the Whispering Door

by T.J. Klune

Here was a shot of an island in a cerulean sea, the trees so thick, he couldn’t see the ground.

“I came home one day. I was late. I opened the door, and there were no shoes right inside. No socks on the floor. No trail of clothes. I thought for once she’d picked up after herself. I was … relieved? I was tired and didn’t want to have to clean up her mess. I called for her. She didn’t answer. I went through the house, room by room, but she wasn’t there. Late, I told myself. It happens. And then the phone rang. That was the day I learned my wife had passed unexpectedly. And it’s funny, really. Because even as they told me she was gone, that it had been quick and she hadn’t suffered, all I could think about was how I’d give anything to have her shoes by the door. Her dirty socks on the floor. A trail of clothes leading toward the bedroom.”

Wallace whispered, “It’s easy to let yourself spiral and fall.” “It is,” Nelson agreed. “But it’s what you do to pull yourself out of it that matters most.”

‘These violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph die, like fire and powder.’”

Go wherever you need to go. To the center of the earth. To the stars. To the—” “To the moon to see if it’s made of cheese,”

“When you brought me back, when you put your hook into my chest, I felt it. They’re yours, Wallace. And you’re theirs. Make sure they know that. You don’t know when you’ll get the chance again.”