The Other Gate

The gate which would never be closed would never really open. It was the lone vigil over the nights of the sleepwalkers. A machine of cast iron and wood, it would draw in and drive astray. It would demarcate one fatal day. The dead end into which it leaned, where life assembled itself to rust, gathered the ash of all the dark houses. Though its hinges would not scream of steel, its silence screamed what a tunnel must—that both sides of the threshold only held dust.


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