She approached the unfamiliar door and nervously pulled the key from her
pocket. She took a deep breath, unlocked it, paused, and then opened the door.
To her horror, what she saw nearly took her breath away. She stepped back a few
paces, unsure whether she should go on, but something tempted her to cross the
threshold. She inhaled. A voice inside her asked whether she’d be able to
return if she went any further. Maybe she should leave the door ajar, just in
case. Just don’t lose the key.
She remembered she had seen that door before. In a dream. In fact, she’d seen it in several dreams. Each time, the vision was crystal clear; a hallway, like something from a castle. A carpeted floor, walls partly wood-paneled, partly fabric-covered. No portraits of old ancestors, just flickering electric sconces leading toward large brown doors with beautiful metal fittings. She had no idea what the dream meant, or why it had started appearing.
* * *
A few months earlier, she had started pondering the meaning of her existence. But why? She felt pretty happy. Nothing seemed missing. She had more than enough; work, money, entertainment, vacations every quarter; diving was a demanding hobby. Thoughts of work, hobbies, and friends filled her whole horizon. But that February, she caught the flu and was stuck home alone. Once the worst of the illness passed but she still had to rest, nothing entertained her. She was left alone just by herself. And she didn’t know what to do with that. She was simply bored but couldn’t even move. She felt lost, staring into the void of her future.
“Am I really happy with everything I have?” she wondered. “What about freedom?” her thoughts continued. “I have enough money, so I must have freedom,” she thought. “But what’s the price of money?” she heard. Suddenly, it was as if two foreign characters were arguing in her mind. And she was merely the observer. Slowly, their outlines came into focus, then she saw them clearly. The first, a woman in her prime, defended her current happiness. She named her Maggie. The second, obviously younger and visibly cheeky, opposed her like a teenager. “You’ll be Cami,” she decided silently, and watched the play unfold before her eyes.
“What do you mean, what’s the price of money?” Maggie wouldn’t back down. “Well, how much effort does it take her to earn it?” Cami cut in. “She gets up every day and goes to work. She has to dress nicely, look presentable, and spend time. A lot of time. Most of her life, really. Sometimes she doesn’t feel like it. Often, she doesn’t and forces herself out of bed. And that fake stress... No wonder she drinks it away in the evenings. That’s it, the price of money is time. She’s trading time for money. Her time is the price,” Cami beamed.
“No pain, no gain. Every child knows that,” Maggie snapped. “How would she live without money? No rest, constant worry about bills. No vacations, or dinners with friends. Think she could afford that? She’d be sleeping under a bridge. And don’t even get me started on taxes.”
“I’m not against working. I’m against employment, against selling your time for money. Everyone needs to do something. But imagine if she didn’t have to go to work and could do what she loved. Like diving. She’d live by the sea. Wake up, just steps from the water. Make a nice breakfast, or not, and dive into the waves,” Cami explained patiently.
“Sounds like a nice little utopia. And what would she eat, catch fish? Search for pearls?” Maggie fired back. “I suggest we try an experiment. Leave it to me. I’ll give her a…”, but didn’t finish.
* * *
“Fever. Hallucinations. Just a dream? What was that, it felt so real,” she woke up, drenched in sweat. “Great, 39°C… I can barely see. One more Panadol and back to bed. I just want this over.”
* * *
“… give her a key that…”
* * *
Once she recovered, she thought about the dream for a while. It had been so vivid. But as time went on; work, plans, friends - she forgot. Later, near the end of May, she stayed home one evening, opened a bottle, and drank to another exhausting workday. How long could this go on?
Her eyes fell to the floor near the dresser. Under the bottom drawer, a yellowed scrap of paper was visible. “Clearly, I haven’t cleaned in a while,” she thought. She rose from the couch and staggered toward it. Bent down, picked it up. Something was written on it. As she unfolded the paper, a key fell out.
“Liberty Avenue 1.” She mustered the courage to go there, finally on August 4th.
* * *
What she saw was more surprising than frightening. She certainly hadn’t expected anything like this behind the door at the end of the hallway. Behind the door, it wasn’t a room, but a long, sun-drenched beach. In the distance, the sea shimmered. She heard the splash of waves and the cries of seagulls. “Are my senses deceiving me? What magic is this?” she thought. Finally, she found the courage to take a small step. Then another. And a third.
For a moment, she stood—one foot over the threshold, the other in the hallway. She looked back, still uncertain, but an unstoppable longing for adventure pulled her forward. She breathed in the salty air and took another step. Clutching the key in her pocket, she didn’t look back. She walked down the beach and felt like a bird.




