Front Door


TEXT: Mark had moved away from the flat when he was seven. As soon as the delivery address appeared on his list, it made him feel oddly uneasy. Although he had passed the red door many times over the years, he had never since entered the corridor. And now, stood at the bottom of the stairwell, the smell was the same as always. A little damp, but fresh. On his way up, he worked out that the ventilation from the utility rooms extracted into the windows at the top of the stairs. Someone, somewhere, was always washing, therefore, it always smelled cotton clean. He knocked on the door of number 12. He wondered how the place had changed. It had been 28 years. The decor would probably be different. But maybe the layout was still the same. He was concerned. Once the door opened, would it disrupt his memory of the place? In his head it was their home. His place. As soon as the person answered, and the door was open, the image would be marred. He heard footsteps. A little panicked, he bent down and dropped the package at the base of the door. He hurriedly descended, waited at the bottom of the stairs to make sure it was picked up, then he left.

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