She waited until the children were napping to open the door. It stuck briefly from disuse. Still everything remained: the goblin offering his golden apple, the bouquet of purple flowers, a chestnut horse, the talking owl.
Her hand twitched, longing to grasp pen and paper.
Outside, he arrived home early. Inside, she slammed the door shut.
She surveyed the unswept floor. Then he was upon her with his twisted face.
“Daydreaming rubbish again. Get up. Fix my dinner.”
One day, when the children were grown, she’d leave him. She’d examine the treasures behind the door and finally tell her stories.