He remembered the door opening. The door had never been open, he didn’t think, but he remembered the door opening. A faint memory, it’s true, and from a long time ago. But a definite memory, unmistakable. He was six, he thinks, or maybe nine. He has the sense of being much closer to the ground than he is now. He’s standing, in the memory, but he’s closer to the ground, so he must have been younger. He would have to be much younger, anyway, even if he didn’t remember being standing. The door that had never been open was in the family home, the first one, the one that burned away. If he’s inside that home, then it follows logically he could only be much younger. Not any older than eleven. No, twelve. It was his thirteenth birthday that it happened on, it must have been, and he knows the door didn’t open on that day. That was the only day he was thirteen in that first family home, so he could only have been twelve when the door opened, at the oldest, the absolute oldest. But he wasn’t that old, he thinks. He thinks he was younger, must have been younger. He was six, or maybe nine. These are the numbers that feel right to them. These are the ages where it seems conceivable to him he might remember the door opening, if he were to remember the door that had never been opening opening, which he does. It couldn’t have been some other year. In those other years, it was always raining. The wood was always swelling, and everything kept sticking shut. Everything was sealed in those years. He remembers his mother trying to open one of the other doors, and it being sealed shut. He remembers he pulling on the knob of the door to his bedroom, and not being able to get it open. Even when she pulled with all her might, she hadn’t been able to get it open. That memory was from some other year. That could have happened when he was twelve, or some other age like that. It was only when he was six, and maybe when he was nine that it wasn’t like that. Those years were the only years when it wasn’t always raining. Those years there were some sunny days. If anything could have done it, it would have been the sunny days. Some of those sunny days, it was so sunny he thought the sun would burn right through him. He remembers his mother warning him to keep his head down or else he would go blind. All day, he remembers, he would stare down at the ground. He would stare at the ground and think about the sun, and the sun would get in his eyes that way, through his brain. In bed at night he would look up and the sun would come out of his eyes and paint itself across the blank places in his room. Without those sunny days, everything would always stay sealed shut. Nothing would get opened. The swelling wouldn’t have gone down. Everything would have stayed sealed shut. It was true his thirteenth year had also not been rainy. All year, it never rained. There had been a lot of sunny days that year, more than any other year he could remember. But the family home had already burned away, so it was a different situation. The door couldn’t have been opening that year. It didn’t exist anymore. It never rained, but it didn’t mean anything. It only meant something when the rain would swell the wood and seal things shut. The way he remembered it, the door had always stayed shut. Except for the one memory he has, where he remembers the door opening. He doesn’t remember the door being open, he thinks. That would be too much. That would be beyond the pale. He only remembers the door opening. The door he had always thought it wasn’t possible to be opening. The door with no knob or hinges. The door that wasn’t really made of wood. The door that was his father’s favorite and the one his mother told him not to think about. He had been sure it couldn’t open. Maybe it had once, a long, long time ago, he had thought, but it couldn’t anymore. Not with all the rain. Not with the swelling of the wood. It couldn’t happen. It was permanently sealed shut. He was sure there was no way for the door to open. He didn’t remember it ever happening, had lived his whole life without it ever happening, except for the one memory he has where the door is opening. In the memory he’s six, he thinks, or maybe nine. The door that had never been open is opening. He tries to look inside, but it takes a long time for the light that’s there to reach him, long enough that it’s still coming even long after it swings back shut and he grows up. It’s not his birthday anymore.