In my dreams I never reach the gate. It sits alone at the end of a winding trail through dense over-hanging trees. It can barely hold itself up against its supporting posts. The wood is rotten, the nails rusty and brittle. The hinge that holds the gate to the posts is almost letting go of its ward.
I walk toward it. It’s the same every time that I’m here. There is no change in time, no change in season. It’s a little before dusk. The sun is dropping outside of the wood, but from within, the canopy oppresses everything, and the sun may as well have already set.
I look around
I don’t recognise the trail. The woods are unfamiliar. The trees, the dense undergrowth, none of it sparks a memory of any place that I have been before. But the smell. The smell grounds me, places me at an exact spot, an exact moment in time. Sadly one that I cannot recall from the back of my mind, but I know that it is there, taunting me, daring me to remember. I know that this place is important. I am more sure than I have ever been, on anything before, that this place holds the key to something. Something important to me. And hopefully, in time, I will solve the puzzle than will unlock maybe a flood of memories.
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