We leave our shoes at the threshold—
dust of old roads clinging to the soles,
names we were called,
roles we wore too long.

The door does not ask for proof.
Only a pause.
Only the courage to set down
what has grown heavy in our hands.

Inside, time loosens its grip.
The past does not vanish—
it waits outside like a familiar path,
patient, winding, known.

But here, we speak in first breaths.
Here, silence listens back.
Here, the self we protected so fiercely
is allowed to rest.

What we leave behind is not discarded.
It is honored at the doorway—
grief leaning against the frame,
anger folded neatly,
fear unbuckled from the chest.

We open the door not to escape who we were,
but to meet who we have not yet met.

And when we step in,
the room holds us gently,
as if to say—
you may return for anything you need,
but you no longer have to carry it all inside.