Silent Sentinels
written by: Patricia Furstenberg
@PatFurstenberg
The laughter came first, buoyant, like the soap bubbles children blow on summer days. It carried with it an unexplainable sense of enchantment. It rose over the brick wall—unexpected, otherworldly.
It took the old man off guard. He wasn’t alone.
It tilted his world. His toe caught on the jagged edge of a loose stone. He stumbled—his heart lurching as though he’d been drawn into something far beyond his understanding. A heartbeat passed, he’d heard it banging in his ears. His body pitched forward, arms flailing, knees bending in all directions, the world tilting sharply around him. Another heartbeat and the hard ground rushed toward him, inevitable.
But it never came.
The laughter stopped. The world straightened. His balance returned.
“Ha! Blasted stone,” he hissed between clenched teeth, his jaw tight as he flicked a wary glance over his shoulder.
There was no one else on the street. Yet the laughter lingered, tugging at the edges of his awareness. His gaze drifted from the road, tracing the familiar path he had walked countless times. He knew this street in all its moods—the way summer baked the cobblestones until they radiated heat, making them long for the cool kiss of the river they’d been yanked from. How autumn leaves gathered in rustling heaps along the curbs, the hush of winter muffling footsteps, and the damp breath of spring stirring scents of earth and rain.
Each season had left its imprint on this street much like the memories woven into its uneven stones—hurried steps of youth, quiet evening strolls, moments stolen in thought.
And yet, today, something felt different.
For the first time, he noticed the heavy wall and, in it, the arched wooden frame. Stones layered higher than a man’s height embraced it, and a pair of tall ceramic vases guarded it, silent sentinels.
The old man forgot his aim for the day, forgot his fight for balance, and paused in the middle of the road, unblinking eyes and jaw slack, as though the sight of it was something new. Though he had passed this spot countless times.
A door loomed within the arched frame, half-swallowed by shadows as though the wall had grown around it, desperate to keep it hidden.
From whom? Why?
Its wood was blackened with age, its surface warped and cracked. Not with decay but as if something from inside had tried, and failed, to make its way out. Thick iron studs like blind eyes marched in uneven rows across its face, their rusted heads catching what little light reached that dark place. A lone heavy ring, dulled by years of disuse, hung at its center. Waiting. Watching.
Yet the stones around it were smooth with the weight of time, their once-sharp edges softened by wind and rain. Ivy had reached over the wall and curled along the arch, its tendrils reaching to clutch that wood, to hold it back. Reclaim what man had built.
He swallowed hard, his tongue spongy, filling his mouth. The air thickened, pressing itself against his skin. Pushing him away.
He had passed this way countless times. Had he ever seen it? Had it always been here, waiting for him to stop, to look—to listen? He had passed this way, yet never had he felt like this, this unsettling uncertainty that the door wasn’t only standing there.
But it was aware of him, as he was aware of it.
That it was watching him.
He wasn’t alone.
The shadows deepened, stretching around his feet as he stood rooted before that door, that lingering laughter holding him fast.
The next day he left home earlier than usual. Not because he was late or in a hurry—these days the time no longer pressed against him, it lay open before him—but because something unseen urged him forward.
The wall. With what he’d spotted there.
As he eagerly neared the place, his pace slowed. His eyes darted between the troublesome bump in the road and the wooden arch beyond it, while his ears strained to hear.
That laughter.
Had it been something his mind had thrown at him? Something the wind had carried past him?
He listened, waiting, longing for that fleeting thrill.
But it never returned. Not that day, nor the next.
And then, just as his thoughts drifted back to the familiar pull of routine and he was distracted once more by the uneven pavement, he nearly dismissed it all—the stone wall that now looked like any other on the street, its surface cleaned, the ivy stripped away as if it had never been there.
The door, once primeval and worn, now standing renewed, its wood rich and polished. The iron studs now free of rust, catching the light with wicked sharpness. The pair of gleaming sentinels.
He closed his eyes against the glare. Against the sharp truth.
It was as though time had been undone for that door, the past smoothed over leaving no trace of the age he had once recognized in its surface.
While his own had etched with each passing day.
And then—just as he was about to move on—he saw it.
A flicker of movement.
A dress, shimmering and sparkling in the light, disappeared just as the heavy door slid shut.
An echo of laughter echoed in his ears.
A jolt of stillness seized him, the air in his chest refusing to move.
A heartbeat.
But this time he didn’t hesitate. His hand lifted, measured but cautious, and the knocker struck with a solid, resonant thud.
The sound still lingered when the door opened.
She was there, a faint smile playing on her lips, her presence inviting, her lashes lowered, eyes veiled in mystery.
Eyes are windows into the soul, went through his mind.
But she was quicker.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said, her tone carrying a quiet knowing, her words leaving her lips only to penetrate his mind.
And he was lost.
The leaves did not stir. The door did not creak. Her dress rustled no more.
He stepped through, his hand brushing against the wood as if a part of him was reluctant to let go of the world behind.
But even that thought left him as he made it through.
And then the door closed, sealing the moment in silence.
The man didn’t return.
Weeks passed and the world noticed his absence only when newspapers began to pile up around his mailbox.
They came searching, standing awkwardly before the low fence of his garden.
They drove along the street missing the pavement with its familiar bump.
Missing the tall stone wall with its wooden door soon overcome by ivy that secured it in its grip, and by the cruel passing of time.
The laughter never rose again.
The dress did not reappear.
The wind carried no answers for there was no one on the street to require them.
And now the door stands as always, weathered and watchful, framed in stone. Simple and unassuming.
While the vases, tall, cracked, flank it like silent sentinels standing vigil over what lays beyond.
Over that which awaits.
For the next curious soul to pause.
To listen.
To knock.
NOTE:
Based on the Prompt – Write about a hidden door that changes everything
- Silent Sentinels - February 24, 2025
- The Seagull - June 29, 2024
- Free, Floating - March 2, 2024
