the green door
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"to you, lost among doors, yet still reaching."
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through the green door © 2025 by Neil Casagan All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the copyright holder, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or educational settings. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. For inquiries about translations, adaptations, or licensing, contact Neil John Casagan neiljohncasagan@gmail.com Special thanks to the wind that whispers stories, the foxes who guard thresholds, and readers brave enough to open strange doors. First Interactive Edition Design: deepai.org
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On the edge of town where the wildflowers grew tall and the wind carried secrets, there stood a door. Not an ordinary door—this one was small, crooked, and painted the deep green of forest shadows. Most people walked right past it every day without noticing. But today... today the door stood slightly ajar.
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As you paused before it, the evening wind whispered through the silence:
You close the door and walk away.
You open the door and step through.
Come curious, come bold
Those who seek may see
But weigh your will—
For every choice
May bloom or burn
Doors unchosen
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The door clicks shut behind you. Before you stretches a wondrous sight—a forest where every tree is made of gleaming glass, their leaves like windchimes in the breeze. The air smells of something familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. You walk and every step you take, trees fade behind.
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A fox steps from between the trees. Not an ordinary fox—this one has silver-tipped ears and eyes that shine like crystals.
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"Ah," says the fox. "You've come and seek like those before you. Here, the stream shows what could be... if you're brave enough to look."
You ignore the glass stream and follow the fox instead.
You decide to drink from the glass stream.
At the forest's heart flows a stream of liquid glass. The fox dips its paw. "The water remembers what the land can’t. Drink, but bear in mind that dreams make good visitors but are not good hosts." Then the fox walks away.
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You kneel beside the stream. As your lips touch the cool glass-water, the world dissolves into nothingness.
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Suddenly—you're standing somewhere else! You see them smiling from ear to ear, cheering for you. A hug so warm it melts you to your most vulnerable. Your idea of success and happiness materialized. Your greatest dream, made real.
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Days pass like pages turning in a favorite book. Everything is perfect. But then...
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One morning, you notice something strange. When you reach for a book (or a handshake, or a teacup), your fingers pass right through it. You're becoming like the glass trees—beautiful, but fading.
You stop and spill the water from the glass stream.
You choose to stay in the dream forever.
The fox appears at your side. "Dreams are sweet, but it cannot nourish. Stay much longer, and you'll disappear completely—a reflection without anyone left to reflect."
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You smile at the fox. "I don't care. This is where I belong."
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The fox sighs. As you watch, its form shimmers and changes—into a child who looks just like you! "I said the same thing." the child whispers sadly, then vanishes like morning mist.
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Now you're truly part of the dream. The applause never fades. The hugs never end. Outside, seasons change, years pass, but here, time stands still.
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Sometimes, when the wind blows just right, you think you hear your name called from very far away. But the music here is so lovely, and the light so warm... Why would you ever listen?
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You gasp and knock over the stream. The dream shatters like a mirror, and you wake—back in your own bed, heart pounding. Was it real? Your pillow is damp, but with tears or glass-water, you can't say.
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Years later, you sometimes pause near that hillside, wondering. But the door never appears again. You think about it from time to time but you’ve let it go. You decide to live and make different dreams for yourself each day.
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You follow the fox deeper into the woods. The glass trees grow taller, their reflections twisting into shapes that make your stomach lurch.
You refuse and run back to the door.
You agree to trade your voice.
"Tell me," says the fox, "would you trade your voice for one true answer? Many have." It gestures to the hollow-eyed children hiding behind the trees. Their mouths move, but no sound comes out.
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You nod. The fox leans close—and bites your shadow. Pain flares, then fades. When you try to scream, nothing comes out.
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But now you know. The answer to your deepest question burns in your mind. Was it worth the price? You'll never be able to tell anyone.
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You stumble backward. "No!" The fox's smile stretches too wide.
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The door reappears. You quickly ran through it—and trip onto the familiar hillside. The door vanishes behind you. For years after, you'll wake up sweating, wondering what the answer might have been. But eventually, you make peace with the truth that not all questions need answers.
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You close the door firmly. The latch clicks like a sigh.
You laugh and say that it was all just a story.
You admit you were afraid to enter the door.
Years pass. You grow up, grow old. One autumn evening, a child tugs your sleeve: "Was there really a magic door here? My grandpa said—"
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"Yes," you whisper. "But I was too scared to go through." The child's face falls.
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That night, you dream of glass trees and a fox. When you wake up, there's a single silver fox hair on your pillow. In silence, you wonder, “What if…”
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"Just a fairy tale!" you chuckle. But the child grins and points—the green door stands there again, wide open!
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This time, you step through together.
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And this time, it was all different.
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Green door that wasn’t there, Where the wind hums secrets— Step through it, if you dare. A forest made of glass, A fox with moonlit feet, Every choice cracks or gleams. No two journeys ventured End alike, nor the same.