Chapter 1
I do not remember exactly what day they installed me; I only remember the journey from the workshop to my destination.
The weather was cold. I will never forget the harsh, grating sound of the plane scraping across the wood, or the sticky sensation of paint against my body. The smell of fresh wood, paint, and sawdust filled the workshop as I slowly took shape among the workers moving around me.
But enough of that...
Despite all those hardships, I was finally complete—smooth, sturdy, and ready for my next journey. A journey I had no idea where it would lead.
They carefully wrapped me and placed me inside a truck so I would not be damaged along the way. The workers took great care of me. I was almost the workshop's favorite child. To tell the truth, I did not mind the attention.
The wood used to make me was of excellent quality, though it did not make much difference to me. At the time, I had no idea what fate was waiting for me.
After hours of traveling, we stopped in front of a tall building. Several of my companions were unloaded. It was getting dark, and the sky had turned a pale orange.
The truck stopped beside a small kiosk.
That was where I smelled it for the first time—a strong, nauseating odor unlike anything I had ever known.
Night came.
Morning arrived, and I was still inside the truck.
The truck started moving again. Before long, it suddenly slammed on the brakes, so hard that I felt as though my spine had been torn from its place!
The workers came for me wearing gloves. They pulled me from the rack and carefully lowered me onto the ground.
Do you know what was good about this place?
There was a rear entrance specifically designed for moving large objects. They put me in the service elevator and took me down to the lower levels.
The farther down we went, the stronger the foul smell became, while the sound of passing trains grew louder—a deep, heavy rumble that sometimes made the walls tremble.
I had imagined that I would be installed in a stylish apartment; perhaps at the entrance of a grand home, in a beautiful room, or even in the office of an important person.
But the smell of sewage quickly shattered those dreams.
I am afraid of rats. Being alive while some creature wants to gnaw on your wood is not pleasant at all.
I also hate dampness. Moisture slowly seeps into the heart of wood, making it feel as though your bones are aching.
A worker came and began installing me. A thick covering was still wrapped over my face, so I could not see anything.
Night fell.
The lights went out, and for the first time, in the darkness, I heard the subway trains. Every few minutes, one thundered past me, making the ground tremble.
The next morning, the worker returned.
He began adjusting me into place.
The tapping of the hammer, the sound of the saw, and the pressure of the screws worked their way through me. Every time I thought the job was finished, he moved something again.
Finally, after hours, he was done.
He pulled the covering from my face.
For the first time, I could see my surroundings.
But he attached a small sign to my front, blocking much of my view. A few letters were carved into it, but I still did not understand what they meant.
I wanted to look around and find out where I was, but the terrible smell barely allowed me to breathe.
A few minutes later, a little girl approached me with a toy elephant in her hand.
She grabbed my handle and pushed me.
“Little girl...” I said. “I’m here! Help me.”
She stared at me in surprise.
“Doors don’t talk!”
“I’m a door,” I said. “Just tell me where I’ve been installed.”
The girl shrugged and simply answered,
“In the women’s public restroom at the subway station.”
At that moment, I felt as though the whole world had collapsed on me.
Me?
A door to a women’s public restroom in a subway station?
Once, I had been a magnificent tree—a tree whose branches reached toward the open sky, where the wind sang among my leaves.
Birds rested on me, and rain washed over my body.
But one memory remained stronger than all the others.
Elephants.
I still remember the sound of their heavy footsteps, approaching from far away, making the earth tremble ever so gently.
Sometimes the great elephants would pass by me, while their calves ran and played behind them.
The elephant calves loved my young branches.
With their little trunks, they would grab my branches, pull at them, and sometimes, in their playful mischief, break a few.
Back then, I used to be annoyed with them.
But now...
I even missed the broken branches.
I missed the forest.
I missed the smell of wet earth.
I missed the sound of the wind.
I missed the birds waking on my branches each morning.
And more than anything, I missed those days when I still did not know that life could turn a tall, proud tree into a simple door in an underground subway station.
Days passed.
Many women came through.
Some were in a hurry. Some were tired. Others simply wanted to escape the noise and chaos of the subway for a few minutes.
Some stood in front of the mirror, fixed their hair, touched up their makeup, and hurried away—as if they had to put a composed face back on before returning to the world.
But I knew that behind every face, there was a story.
Sometimes I saw women who had nowhere to sleep, taking shelter in a corner of the station.
I witnessed tears shed in silence.
I witnessed smiles that perhaps hid exhaustion.
I witnessed people who closed the door for a few minutes, stepping away from the noise outside to be alone with themselves.
And among all those people, there was a woman who came every day to clean the place.
I thought she might be an immigrant.
Her accent was unfamiliar to me, and sometimes, while she worked, she hummed Latin songs under her breath.
Her voice was not particularly beautiful, but I liked hearing it.
Perhaps because, in that cold and lifeless place, it was the only voice that seemed to carry the scent of life.
One night, unlike the others, she did not come alone.
Two children were with her—a girl and a boy.
The girl was hugging the same toy elephant, while the boy, tired and listless, held his mother's hand.
The woman seemed different that night.
Quieter.
More subdued.
And sadder than ever.
I did not know what had happened.
Perhaps their landlord had thrown them out.
Perhaps her husband had forced her and the two children out of their home in the middle of the night.
Perhaps something else had happened—something I would never know.
I could only watch.
I watched a woman trying to appear strong in front of her children.
But sometimes her hands trembled.
That night, she hummed one of the same Latin songs she always sang. But this time her voice trembled, and some of the words disappeared into her tears.
When she finished her work, she sat the children beside me.
They were so exhausted that they did not even ask questions.
The little girl placed her toy elephant beside her and rested her head against me.
The boy moved closer to his sister.
That night, the children slept right there.
And I...
For the first time, I realized that perhaps I had been wrong all these years.
Perhaps I was never meant to stand at the entrance of a grand house.
Perhaps I was never meant to belong to some magnificent building.
Perhaps I was meant to be right here.
Right here, in a place where so many people needed me.
I quietly sheltered those two children—not in the way a mother could, but in the only way a door can offer shelter.
I stood there beside them all night.
The subway trains came and went.
The ground trembled beneath the passing trains.
The lights were off, and the city beyond the concrete walls was still awake.
But the two children were asleep.
And until morning, I did not let them feel alone.
That night passed too.
When morning came, the woman woke the children and took them with her.
I never learned where they went.
But the image of those two children stayed with me for a long time.
After that night, I was no longer ashamed of where I had been placed.
I was condemned to remain in that very spot.
I did not know what the future had in store for me.
Perhaps one day the dampness would wear me down.
Perhaps my wood would decay, and one day I would be replaced by another door.
Perhaps one day someone would throw me away without ever knowing what kind of tree I had once been.
But for now, I am still here.
Still standing.
Watching people pass by, each carrying a story of their own.
People who are sometimes tired, sometimes sad, and sometimes happy.
People who spend a few minutes fixing their makeup, arranging their hair, and then return to their lives.
People who cry, wash their faces a few minutes later, and pretend that nothing happened.
And sometimes, people who simply need a place where they can feel safe for a few moments.
Perhaps my present place is not what I once dreamed of.
But now I understand that the value of a door is not determined by where it is installed.
I am still the same wood that once had roots in the earth.
I can still stand firm.
I can still offer shelter.
I can still be something to lean on.
Perhaps time brought me down from the height of a tree and turned me into a simple doorway, but it could not take my roots away.
I still carry the scent of the forest in my memories.
I still remember the sound of elephants.
I still remember the mischievous elephant calves that used to break my branches.
And I still know that a door is not made only to open and close.
Sometimes, it must be a way in.
Sometimes, it must be a way out.
Sometimes, it must stand between people and the world outside.
And sometimes...
it must simply be the one place where a tired human being can feel safe for a few moments, behind it.
Perhaps I am no longer a tree...
but I can still carry a little piece of a forest inside me.
