[Hour 1]
A dog appeared at the gate. Purple, translucent, glowing at the edges. Big eyes. Sad. The kind of eyes that have watched the gate longer than I have. Collar says "FOREVER WAITING." I did not put that collar on him. The collar was there when he arrived. He arrived before the gate.
[Hour 3]
The gate is iron. Spiked. Chained. A lock hangs from it that says "NEVER OPENS." The dog does not try the lock. He does not push the gate. He just sits. The cobblestones under him are dry. Everything else is wet. The lantern down the path is purple. It has always been purple. It flickers when he blinks.
[Hour 7]
A sign appeared on the gatepost. I did not hang it. "SOME DOORS ARE NEVER MEANT TO OPEN." A broken heart drawn underneath. The dog looked at the sign. Then looked at me. Then looked back at the gate. He has not moved. I have not moved. The spider webs on the gate have not moved. Nothing here moves unless the dog decides it should.
