The Door That Opened Only in Winter

Above the village was a door with no house behind it. It stood between two stones on the mountain path. In summer its handle would not turn. In winter, when snow hid the road, it opened easily.

People said it led to a warm room where a traveller might rest. They also said that anyone who stayed after the fire went out would never come home.

The carpenter Ivo did not believe either story. He believed in swollen wood, loose hinges and villagers who enjoyed frightening children. One autumn he carried his tools uphill to fix the door.

Its frame was sound. Its hinges had no rust. When he removed the latch, the door remained closed.

“Stubborn workmanship,” he said.

The first snow came before he returned. Halfway up the mountain he met a woman whose donkey had slipped on the path. Ivo helped her lift the animal, then led it by the bridle until they reached the two stones.

The door stood open. Beyond it was a room with a small fire, a bench and a kettle. They went inside. Ivo forgot his tools in the snow.

The woman drank a cup of hot water. Her donkey rested beside the bench without surprising either of them. After a while she said she must reach her daughter before dark.

“Let the fire burn lower,” Ivo said. “There is plenty of time.”

“There is always plenty of time inside,” she answered.

He watched her leave. The fire settled. It occurred to him that he could remain until spring, warm and untroubled, with no broken chairs to mend and no customers arguing about payment.

Then he noticed the bench. Its back was carved with names. Some were old enough to have almost disappeared. Near his hand was his brother’s name.

His brother had gone over the mountain twelve winters earlier and never returned. Ivo called out, but the room had become very quiet. Only one coal still shone.

He pushed himself to his feet and stepped through the door. Outside, the woman was waiting with his tools.

“Did you find what was holding you?” she asked.

Ivo nodded, although he could not explain it.

Every winter afterwards, he carried firewood to the two stones. He left it outside. Sometimes there were footprints entering the doorway; sometimes there were none.

He never repaired the lock. In summer, when children asked why the door would not open, he said that some shelters were meant for people who still intended to continue their journey.