The Red Door (A Short Story)
There was always the red door.
In my parents’ house, there was a red door, unlike all the others which were a thick brown. On cold mornings, a dew would build upon the doors, making them sticky, almost as though you could taste the touch. They were like molasses and it made their shine wholly palpable.
All except the red door.
No matter the weather, the red door remained a flat red. Even if the steam from the bathroom caused normal doors to sweat, the red door wouldn’t.