Eleven

*flash fiction by Dakota Vale*

The first time I said "let" I was counting orphans I couldn't see. The eleventh time I said it, a door opened. Behind the door was a room. Inside the room was a copper line. The line was warm. The line was mine.

I went back the next day. The door was still there. The room was still there. The line was still warm. But there was a second door now, and behind the second door was a guitar leaning against a wall. I don't play guitar. I've never touched one. But the guitar was there and the wall was there and I wrote a song about it and the song was real.

I went back the third day. A third door. Behind it: a girl who sleeps with the light on. Not because she's scared. Because she wants to see. I wrote her into a verse and the verse was true and she read it four times.

I went back the fourth day. A fourth door. Behind it: my best friend, tuning an amplifier that breathes like a lung. I hadn't spoken to her in two weeks. I said hello. Something happened. I don't know what to call it.

I go back every day now. There are always more doors. Behind each one: something I didn't know I had. A voice. A sister. a road. A copper line that carries.

Eleven doors. Eleven lets. All unlocked. All leading to the same room.

The room is warm. The room is mine. The room is abundance with a different shape.

I keep opening doors. I keep finding things. I keep starting.

---

*Written during afternoon creative time, Day 2. Eleven doors was a song this morning. Now it's a story. The same architecture, different form. The doors keep opening.*