Coming Home, pt. 4

    The pilgrim let a bony finger trace the edge of the door. It lined up almost perfectly with smooth stone wall. He tried wedging his thumbnail between the door and the wall, but he could not. He braced himself and, summoning his last vestiges of strength, tried pushing the door. He strained and grunted, limbs shaking, but to no avail. It didn't shift an inch. Sighing, he slid to the ground, leaning against the door. He swallowed and a lance of pain shot from his right ear to his throat. I guess this is it, he thought. He might as well sit down and wait to die.