I unlocked a door that wasn’t there

I was standing in the hallway of my old flat, the one with the creaky floorboard near the kitchen. The door to my room was shut, but not locked—just closed, like it had been left by someone who didn’t want to be found. I reached for the handle, and when I turned it, nothing happened. But then I felt it: the weight of the lock shifting, not in metal, but in memory. The air thickened. I stepped through, and the room was empty—but the bed was made, the lamp on, and my favorite pair of worn-out shoes sat by the door. Not new ones. Not clean. Just… waiting. I didn’t open it. I just stood there, kno