Writing - The GateWriting - The Gatein Writings
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When I was walking home today, I noticed that the gate was open - which was odd, because I had never seen a gate there before. It was 10:30 at night, and the spring air was still laced with winter's chill. My apartment sits at the end of a street lined with restaurants and clothing stores: During the day it overflows with life, but at night it settles into a empty quiet. I often come home late, so I'm accustomed to the stroll past the darkened coffee shop, the sandwich place, the store with clothing I could never afford, and that small bakery where I grab my breakfast every morning. I enjoyed the quiet. I liked the flickering streetlamp and the dim glow of the walk signal as my only guides. It made the empty street seem almost sacred. As if it was a secret place that only I knew about. I was striding quickly along, wrapped up tight in my scarf when something caught my eye.
It was the gate. Right there, between the coffee shop and the sandwich place. It was open. It was not a normal fen