She reaches for the door as if she longs for what is on the other side. Her left hand forms a fist against it like she had been knocking; her right is flat, like she gave up. Her head is also against the piece of wood, the light brown turning a darker shade when wet with tears. She is frustrated, for she had been trying to open this door for what feels like years. The truth, which is she can’t get through this way, goes through her mind, but she chooses to ignore it.

He is farther away from the door, closer to the desk behind him. He is sitting in the wheelie chair given for his birthday, with a rather serious look on his face. In his hand is a photo, one of a small boy and a girl, probably in kindergarten. His gaze is partially focused on the photo, and on the door. He feels for the chain around his neck, and fins the key that lies over his heart. He knows that he can walk through the door before him, but he wonders, does he want to?