Another Door opens...

The gauzy moonlight diluted in to the room as the tattered curtains gently swayed in the winter breeze.
Occasionally the light would hit just right, and then one could see the specks of dirt and dust play hide and seek, on the leather sofas, on the table, on the delicate china bowl that lay tilted on the floor.
The wind was frivolous, joining the dust and the silence, as it swayed and swirled against the walls and the ceiling, and somewhere in the distance the wind chime played a melodious breezy note. The sounds echoed, weaving their way in through the coarse silence settled in each sinew of the lone house, till they escaped from the cracks and holes in those crumbling papered walls.
It was a picture of misery, that house.
Cold and alone, it stood shivering each day, each night, for years uncounted, and each day brought new hope and new endings, as more windows creaked, more grass withered and more birds built their nests in the dark exposed spaces.
The house was not a grand one, but in its time, it had been a humble abode, and though it spread wide and far, there was humility in its plain walls, and in the stale colors of its doors and windows. Once the brick chimney had been sooty and warm, flooding with smoke and laughter as the coals smoldered in the fireplace, but ever since the last room had caught fire, it stood dark and still. Now only pigeons bred inside it, fat and content, as they lazed on the slanted roof and the once sooty edges of the chimney all day long. Perhaps the chimney was the coldest, but enveloped in the layers of dust and dirt, the entire house was bitter and dismal, and whined at even the slightest intrusion of nature.
So when the tiny grey rat, slid in through the crack in the door, with its quivering nose and beady eyes, the wood mourned till the wind silenced it with its pretty dances.
The night was settling in, and it diluted into the sky with all its dark hues, painting everything silver and blank.
Occasionally the trees would sway and the moonlight would meet the edges of the crooked fence, unveiling its grainy rusty coat, and then letting it drown in black again. It wasn’t difficult for the fence, or for its jagged and crumbling edges, this drowning; it had learnt to sink in peace, as the dew mourned it’s falling each night, feeling it decompose beneath the layers of inky blackness.
Yet every night those silvery rays would wrap around the fences and pull them up, choking and sputtering into a world they no longer longed to see.
As the weakened trees swayed back into stillness, a low howl erupted into the solitary air, stretching out into eternity, as the withered leaves crunched and crumbled, their veins fracturing audibly.
It was like a wail that sound and it spoke of things so hideous and miserable, that even the wind trembled and seemed to join the poor creature, spreading its voice across the vast expanse, with a glimmer of hope. The bloodhound limped out from behind the trees, its head held down, and its once sturdy legs now quivering beneath his airy weight.
The moon reflected off each rib of its willowy body and off the stump that had once been a leg. He stumbled as he walked, but he had stumbled for many nights, and the pain no longer wrecked his muscles. It was just another reminder that the blood still coursed through his veins and the night still stayed to pass on to another cold day.
It was a long path from the fence to the door, and the cobblestones were now defeated by thorny bushes and weeds that spread like hairy fingers across the wide span of empty land. He squeezed in through the half open fence, and then fell upon the bushes with an audible thud.
The thorns cut his body where the skin was pink and bald, and small droplets of blood trickled down into the grime on his coat, making it damper and stickier than before.
His burden was great and his three legs were little support, and as he slid to a corner and heaped his weight against the wall, he was reminded of the pain that followed him for months after that fall, till the final dead sinew fell lose and was lost.
Once again the dog limped towards the door through the narrow clearing that only he knew existed. Each scar on his body was witness to that.
The road was still long, and he sweated as he limped, with his head hung low.
There was little light for comfort, but if there had been just enough, one could see the solid drops of tears that splashed from that hung head, and hear the low whimper as yet another thorn was stabbed into his body.
For the lonely dog, there was no other home.
This was all he had ever known, all that he had to come to love but he had watched its fall and his strong heart had refused to lay him to rest along with it. This house had been his first, and he needed it to be his last. He craved for the warmth behind the oak door, craved for all that went down six feet under with the last bricks of his dog house.
It had been so long, long ago, yet there was a happy doubt in his mind, a doubt that refused to leave.
So he limped and he hopped till he reached the dusty steps, and went up to the door that was now just a papery reminder of its past glory.
In the silvery glow one could see as he stood tall against the door and then the window pane, trying to peek into the darkness that had once never existed.
And, just as before, there was no click of a lock, or the echo of a voice, just for him.
He no longer whined, no longer scraped his paws against the door, or barked loud and clear. He was used to this.
So quietly, like the night, he kneeled and then slept, huddled against the cold wood, as the night and its winds passed away festively…