Every morning,
I walk past door number seven.
It has become a permanent fixture in my routine
but no more so than one of the thousand trees I pass in the park.
I know it is there and I give it no thoughts
other than the occasional side-eye glance, pondering
if the emerald cracks
will ever receive a new winter coat
of green paint.
But the story behind the door
is so much more than the package propped against it.
Who lives there now?
Before?
What about the future?
How many doors will turn the handle and call it home?