The Worn-Out Mat

The front door makes the same small sound. You lift it first, then turn the key. Nobody fixed it. After enough mornings, a habit becomes part of the house. A bird lands outside the window. Looks inside. Leaves. Tomorrow... it does the same. You said, "You're not the one I knew." I looked at the worn-out mat. It still says, "Welcome." Every day. To everyone. Coffee cools without asking permission. Morning crosses the kitchen floor. The clock keeps arriving before everyone else. As if time could be persuaded. Outside, the wind teaches the grass a different direction. No argument. Just movement. If every river keeps its name, how much water is allowed to change? If every door opens the same, who decides who's coming home? One afternoon I found sand inside my shoe. I couldn't remember the last time I saw the sea. A few grains followed me through the hallway. The house welcomed a place that wasn't there. Or perhaps it had simply chosen another way to arrive. You were calling someone familiar. I answered... and both of us fell silent. Outside, the bird found the window without hesitation. Perhaps trees never ask for yesterday's leaves. Perhaps they only wait for morning. The door still knows how to open. I wonder if that's enough. ©𓂃☽ 𝑴𝒂𝒈𝒏𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒂 ☾𓂃 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔. 𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅