She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally decided to walk through the door. The thick leather bound book lied on the dark mahogany coffee table in solitude, standing out against the intricate wood grain that painted the table’s surface. The cover of the book was blotted with small unidentifiable stains from years of unintentional abuse. The binding was struggling to keep hold of all the pages. Some were hanging on by small shreds of paper, others had been taped back in place. The pages were worn, their edges less sharp than they once were. Over the years the pages had lost their crispness and become softer and more fragile, yet the information they stored was anything but tarnished. Each paragraph retold the events of a day, each chapter a year. There were 86 in all, making the book quite a long one. And strangely, the last chapter was a quite a bit shorter than the others, which were all roughly the same length. Despite the immense length, the book was a relatively quick read for Deborah.. In a way, she had read it once already, and after recent events, it seemed she had all the time in the world to immerse herself in a good book.
She was through the doorway now, the light outside much brighter than the light by which she had been reading the book. It was blinding at first, so it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the glare. Something large in front of her was reflecting the light in all directions. Slowly before her, as her vision returned, a rod iron fence appeared. Standing 20 feet tall, constructed of shiny metallic bars, it glistened in the sunlight. The gate of the fence, which seemed to be locked, was far more intricate than the persistent parallel protrusions that stretched forever in the distance. It wound and spun within itself, the metal danced in circles causing detailed patterns and designs. As more of her field of view returned, Deborah began to notice other features of her luminous environment. There were white clouds that diffused the bright, shimmering light while still allowing a few streaks to stab through. Deborah began to feel a sense of serenity and tranquility in the presence of the glossy-white industrial artwork. Relaxation overcame her, and she sighed to let go of her last bits of stress. “Hello Deborah,” she heard a voice say.
Back through the door, the book still sat alone on the table, alone in a room of darkness. It was faded and old, desolate of any distinguishable features or markings, void of any clues to its content. Its cover was bare except for a single word, a name, Deborah.
The fence gates began to slowly swing open. “How’s life?” she heard the voice say. Deborah thought for a moment, remembering the leather bound book on the coffee table, remembering her life as it once was.
She simply replied, “It was wonderful,” as she walked through the opening gates.