I hate the rain.
My socks are drowning; my boots are caked with mud. My whole body feels heavy. It’s hard to move and I can’t see anything. The Door isn’t around here, I think. My stomach is in knots. All I can think about is how I’d promised the old woman that I’d make it back soon with a surprise for her. Knowing her, she’ll wait up all night for me. I can’t bear to think of that. I tuck my parcel under my arm more securely when a near-stumble threatens to loosen it from my grip. In the rain, the scents become stronger: flowers, cinnamon, diamond-berries, ruberries... It all mixes together. I enjoy it because it almost distracts me from the fact that I can’t smell where the path is.
I keep going. I try to think about how happy Grandma will be when she sees my gift. If nothing else, it’ll get her up and walking again. She’s been sad lately.
The rain is loud. It falls harder in the forest because it falls on the leaves, gathers, and comes pouring when it’s ready. The deeper I go, the more soaked my clothes become. I wonder with a bitter chuckle when I can stop saying that I’m walking and start saying that I’m swimming. It’s too dark: combined with the rain, the forest here has become thicker than a stone and as black as a starless sky. The thought of going farther becomes more difficult to justify. I’ve only been going one direction; if I turn and go straight back, I’ll be in town again. I start turning...
No. I can’t do that.
I have to keep going or else she’ll worry. I shake my head, straighten up, and turn around again. The pitch black, the loud rain, the cold, the wet—they’re all waiting for me. And the Door isn’t anywhere in sight. I should’ve taken the baker’s offer to come with me, but then again, what would he do in this part of the woods? His eyes and ears are as good as mine! In fact, mine are better! And I’ve been through the Door any number of times. One day, I think to myself with a smile, I’ll be so well-traversed in this place that I’ll be able to find it in the heaviest of storms in the darkest night with my eyes shut.
Not today though.
I take one step and lose my footing again. I’m so waterlogged, soaked, drenched that I almost plunge face-first into the muck. Even though I can feel it, I glance down at my parcel to make sure it’s still there. With a smile, I recount the items in my head and massage the bag until each one is accounted for. For a moment, I was afraid it’d slipped away. In the next moment, I huff, readjust my parcel, and squeeze out some of the water from my hoodie. I ought to have more faith in myself, I think, as I’ve never been the type to lose things so easily. Even the thought is almost inaudible over the rain.
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Grandma would welcome me home, as usual. It doesn’t take me long to miss her oversized but warm, itchy sweaters and her warm soups and her long, droning stories about days gone by and her constant humming; her swearing at the morning fog and her being startled by the cold dew on the flowers. It powers me through this ordeal. But I have to admit it can only power me so far. Exhaustion begins to kick in; my legs are growing weak in the rain. By this point, I don’t know which way I’ve come and which way I’m going: it all carries the same darkness. The Door is nowhere in sight right now. It might stay gone until the morning at this rate. Grandma is going to worry about me.
Worry.
Someone is worrying about me.
I remember.
I see faces; not Grandma, but someone else. These faces take shifts in my memories, but they are constant. They have no definition, but I know them well; they fill me with warmth, but I don’t know their names. The scenery around me starts to fade away as my mind gives in to the memory. Someone worried about me once. A lot of people worried about me. The rain gives way to voices that speak unintelligibly and are punctuated by my name; their tones are full of worry.
He told me that I need to remember whenever I can. Sometimes, he explained, memories help the Door open faster or wider or something like that. Even so, it couldn’t have come at a worse time. What other choice do I have, lost in the woods, soaked in the rain, no clue which way to turn at the moment? I slump against the nearest tree with the thickest trunk, tucking the parcel underneath my tented legs. There isn’t too much rain here so I take the time to wring out as much water as I can as quickly as I can. The memories flicker behind my vision: rain and dark, warmth and light, isolation, joy and comfort.
“Hold on, hold on,” I say out loud, slipping my hood over my head and pulling my knees closer. “I’m coming. No need to push.”
I slip into the memories. It’s different from normal remembering. These memories are strong; they are powerful. They drown out the world around me. I’ve been taught not to fight them if I can avoid it, and I don’t. Grandma will have to wait, I think to myself, because right now, I need to remember...