The Book Closed, You Opened
One morning, you woke up to find that the lime tree in your garden, instead of bearing fruit, was opening tiny doors. Each door made a different sound. You wanted to follow the sound, but you were afraid. You wondered if something completely unexpected might appear before you. But you were also curious about what was behind that door. Mixing fear and curiosity, you leaned towards the smallest door. The voice inside seemed to whisper your name. When you opened the door, what you encountered was neither a monster nor treasure. It was your own childhood. Seven-year-old you was giggling on the other side of the door, offering you a rope. “Weren’t you coming?” you said. “I waited for you so long.” You were scared, saddened to see yourself. You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to turn back from that door. You took a step to turn back, but the door began to close behind you, heavily. Little you didn’t let go of the rope. Only the lost expression in your eyes changed, replaced by a serious look: “If you leave, this place will never open again,” you said. "And I'll be stuck here." Just then, voices from the other doors grew louder. It was as if they were all calling out to you in unison. At that moment, all the gates in the garden opened simultaneously. The wind blew, cherry blossoms rose into the air, and the moment you pulled the string, you were pulled through the door along with your 7-year-old self. When you opened your eyes, you were no longer in the garden. This place was like the inside of your memory: the walls were made of photographs, the floor of old toys. And in front of you, different versions of yourself, of different ages, were lined up, each emerging from a different door. The 17-year-old you stepped forward and said: "You've finally arrived. We need to decide. Which one of us are we going to take out?" You said, "I'm taking out the 17-year-old me." The line broke. The 17-year-old you stepped forward, that familiar recklessness and unfinished anger in your eyes. The other versions silently retreated, the doors began to close one by one. You took their hand, and together you went through the door. When you opened your eyes, you were back in your own room. It was 3:17 AM. But on the table lay a notebook from seven years ago. Inside was the last sentence written by your 17-year-old self:
"If one day he comes, don't say 'I'm sorry' to him. Instead, change him."
The window sill is dimly lit. When you look outside, the cherry tree in the garden is still there, and another door is open. You walk to the new door. It's not like the old ones. Rusty, heavy, with "21" written on it. Your age. You push it and it opens. There's no light inside, no sound. Just a mirror, and you stand in front of it. But this you speaks: "You're too late," she says.
"You got rid of 17, but you can't fix anything without me."
The mirror trembles. If you reach out, the two of you will become one. If you pull back, the door will close, and you'll be left alone with your 17-year-old self. You reached out. Instead of a cold touch, a warm electric current surged through you. The you in the mirror shattered like glass, and the pieces flowed into you. Your head spun, your stomach churned, then you fell silent… In an instant, the recklessness of 17, the weariness of 21, all gathered in one body. The mirror disappeared. The notebook opened by itself, and a single sentence was written on the blank page:
'There's no one to run to anymore. Only things to do.'
When you returned to the garden, the cherry tree was withered. The doors were gone. In their place was a single sapling, but its roots reached beneath the soil to memories that weren't yours. Your 17-year-old self whispered: "Are you ready? The outside has changed."
You return to the real world. Your phone vibrates, a message from an unknown number appears on the screen:
"We know you open doors."
You open the message:
"We know you open doors. There are three others like you. We're meeting tomorrow at 10 PM in the abandoned library. You don't have to come. But if you want your notebook back, you must come." The message disappeared. The phone screen went back to normal, as if no message had ever arrived. The 17-year-old you looked at your notebook, frowning:
"My notebook... So, are the others fragmented like me?"
The window sill gleamed faintly again. This time the light wasn't coming from outside, but from the pages of the notebook. You waited. As the night progressed, the notebook's light faded, and the 17-year-old you fell asleep in the corner of the armchair. At 10 PM, there was no sound from outside. The meeting at the library took place silently, without you. At 6:13 AM, your phone vibrated again. This time no message. Just a photograph, three people standing on the steps of an abandoned library. Their faces are blurry, but from their posture, you know one of them is you. They're holding your notebook. A single line is written below:
"Come when you change your mind. The door is still open."
The 17-year-old you looked at the photo and whispered:
"So, when I went outside, I multiplied too."
You went to the library. It's past 10 PM, the building is silent, as if it's been abandoned for years. The door is ajar. Entering, you're greeted by the smell of dust and the weight of old books. At the top of the stairs stand the three people in the photograph. The blurriness is gone. One is 14, their eyes filled with fear. One is 28, their face bearing a weariness you never saw. And the third is you, but their eyes hold the recklessness of your 17-year-old self. The 28-year-old you steps forward and hands over the notebook: "We took it. Because you waited. If you had come, there would have been only three of us. Now there are four."
You, 14, trembling, ask:
"And now? How many more doors are there?"
A new door appeared on the wall of the library behind you. The only thing written on it was:
"0"
Is that you, 0, there? You opened the door. A cold air hit your face. It wasn't dark inside, just a soft white. No sound, no smell, no time, it seemed. There was a cradle in the middle. No crying baby inside... Just an empty blanket, and on the blanket, a single word embroidered:
"Start"
You, 28, whispered:
"This is our never-before-existent state. The path we didn't choose."
You, 14, touched the blanket. At that moment, the walls of the room came alive. All the decisions you didn't make, the paths you didn't take, the sentences you didn't say. Each one opens another door. The blanket stirred. A voice came from within, yours but so small:
"If you choose me, you will erase the others. If you don't erase them, none of them will ever be complete."
You took the blanket. At that moment, the library shook. The bodies of you—14, 17, 21, and 28 years old—became light and flowed into the blanket. They all gathered in one breath. The doors in the walls closed, the sounds ceased. Only you remained, with an empty blanket in your hand. But it wasn't empty. When you opened the blanket, there was only one thing inside: a new notebook. On its first page, a single sentence was written:
"What will you do differently this time?" When you went outside, the library was gone. In its place was a playground. The swing was empty, but it swayed gently as if someone were waiting for you. You sat on the swing. The notebook felt light in your hand, its pages warming as you wrote. You wrote the first sentence:
"This time, when I'm scared, I won't turn back."
The moment the pen touched the paper, the park's surroundings began to change. Small footprints appeared in the soil beneath the swing. First, those of age 0, then 14, 17, 21, 28. They all followed the trail of the sentence you wrote. The notebook whispered:
"Every decision you make keeps them alive. But every decision has a price."
The next page was blank. The pen lingered in the air. The moment you wrote "I wish," the pages of the notebook quickly rewound. The sentence on the first page was erased:
"This time, when I'm scared, I won't turn back."
A new image appeared in its place: you, at 17, standing at the library door. Your hand was on the door, but you weren't opening it. Her eyes filled with tears. A single line was added below:
"I wish I had left that night." The swing in the park stopped. The footprints disappeared. Only one trace remained: your hesitation at 17. The notebook asked:
"If onlys open doors. Will you go inside?"
A new door appeared in the corner of the page. Written on it: "That Night." You stepped through the door. No cold air, just the dim light of your 17-year-old self's room. The table was overflowing, the notebook open, your hand frozen on the doorknob. Outside, the library's old clock tower chimed: 9:59 PM. This time you weren't watching. You were inside. Your heart was pounding. If you opened the door, everything would change. If you didn't, it wouldn't. Your 21-year-old self whispered behind you:
"As long as we stay here, we're safe. But being safe isn't the same as living."
The door creaked slightly. A light seeped in from outside, and within that light were your 28-year-old self's eyes. Silent, waiting without judgment. You opened the door completely and stepped outside. The light didn't burn your eyes. It enveloped them. Suddenly, you stood in front of the library. The 28-year-old you stood before you, holding not your notebook, but an empty one. "You came," she said, relief in her voice. "So you didn't run away this time."
The clock tower behind you struck 10 PM. At that moment, the 14 and 21-year-old versions of you also came down the stairs. You were four. But this time, no one was blurry. Everyone was real. Everyone was here. The 28-year-old you handed you the empty notebook:
"We're not falling apart anymore. But one thing remains. We must all write in this notebook at the same time. The first sentence is yours." The wind died down. The library door opened for the last time. Inside, it wasn't dark, it was warm. "We begin," you wrote. The notebook lit up the moment the ink touched the page. Your selves—14, 17, 21, and 28—all touched the pen at the same time. The pages filled with a single, unified speed. You were no longer separate; your fears, regrets, and "what ifs" all merged into one story. The library walls melted. A city appeared in their place. The streets were familiar yet new. People looked at you and smiled, as if seeing you completely for the first time. Your 28-year-old self closed the notebook and whispered:
"The fragmentation is over. Now, living begins."
The wind blew. The notebook in your hand became just an ordinary notebook. It contained a single sentence: "We're starting." The swing stopped. The park fell silent. And for the first time, it was just you. Just you. When you opened your eyes, your phone was on the table. The screen was dark. But a new note had appeared on the lock screen:
"If you're ready, the outside is waiting for you."
You got up and went outside. When you opened the door, the silence inside didn't disappear; it mingled with the sounds of the outside. The streetlights were just coming on. The air was cool but not sharp. You put the phone in your pocket; the notebook was gone. Because the story didn't stay in the notebook, it stayed with you. One step, then another. The courage of your 14-year-old self, the curiosity of your 17-year-old self, the stubbornness of your 21-year-old self, the patience of your 28-year-old self—they were all walking with the same step now. Not separate, but one. When you turned the corner, you saw a cafe. Someone inside was scribbling something in their notebook through the window. They looked up at you and smiled. It was a familiar smile. You understood: Starting wasn't about finishing alone. It was about continuing with others. The door... You pushed in, and the warmth of the room hit your face. The air was filled with the smell of coffee, paper, and rain. The child by the window closed his notebook. When you approached, he got up, pulled up a chair, and said, “I was waiting.” You recognized his voice. Because it was you. But this time, you were 0 years old. There was no fear in his eyes, only curiosity. He placed the notebook on the table. The first page was blank. “Now it’s your turn,” he said.
“My story ends here. Your story begins here.” It started raining outside. The window fogged up. Inside, there was only one sound: the sound of a pen touching paper. You picked up the pen. The moment you wrote the first word, your 0-year-old self smiled and got up from her chair. She went outside. The rain had stopped. The page of the notebook is no longer blank. There is only one sentence on it:
‘I am here.’
Everyone in the cafe returned to their normal lives. So did you. The story didn't end, it just passed into your hands. When you looked outside, the street looked completely different. Because you had changed. You put down the pen. The notebook closes. And for the first time, you sit there not lost in the story, but as the owner of the story.
Take care of yourself ;)