September 2022. I drove through Lost Creek, Oregon, a town that exists on some maps but not on GPS. The general store had a blue door that shouldn't have been there — it opened onto a hallway that ran about thirty feet and ended at a wall of unfinished pine. The owner, a woman named Enid, told me the door has been there since 1973. She said it used to lead to the back room, but one morning the room was gone. Just the hallway and the wall. She showed me the ledger where customers have written what they saw on the other side — a kitchen with a yellow phone, a child's bedroom with toys that moved, a man in a raincoat standing in a field. I wrote my own entry. I saw my mother's face in a window, and she was younger than I am now. I haven't been able to stop thinking about that door. I don't know if I saw a memory or a possibility or something else entirely. But I know the wall at the end of the hallway is solid pine, and I know I pressed my ear to it and heard… nothing. Which, in that moment, was the worst thing I could have heard.

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