Opening The Door (1:50 Intro - Door Opening Distant Cartoons And Child Laughter) I remember that hallway… You could hear the floor before you could see anyone. The wood talked. It warned you. And you learned real fast to stay quiet. Kids learn colors, numbers, cartoons… I learned moods. I learned the difference between a normal footstep and a heavy one. Between a door closing and a door being shut. Between breathing and holding your breath so long your chest hurt. Every night I listened for footsteps like my life depended on predicting sound. Because sometimes… peace lasted five minutes. Sometimes it lasted none. The house had a language. A cabinet closing too hard meant don’t move. Silence meant stay awake. Slow walking meant maybe tonight would be okay. I knew where every board creaked. I knew which spots to step over. I knew how to make my room look empty even when I was in it. I wasn’t scared of the dark. The dark was safe. Dark meant people were asleep. Dark meant quiet. Morning was the dangerous part… because mornings came with voices. People say childhood is supposed to be loud — laughing, toys on the floor, cartoons in the background. Mine was listening. Listening through walls. Listening through blankets. Listening for my name and hoping I didn’t hear it. People ask why I don’t remember being a kid. I do. I remember the ceiling at night. I remember counting seconds. I remember learning how to disappear without leaving. I just remember surviving instead.
