To the Black Door:

Jibril opened his eyes in a white void. A few metres away, there was a black door: a circle of black. The walk was not tiring; no air fluttered his hair, nor pebbles pinched his feet. He stretched out his hand, but it never seemed phased through the door.

"Trying again, are we?" Jibril turned to see a wrinkly man in a khaki shawl. He had black skin, fat laps, a nose and black eyes. His hair was short, and his ears long. He sat beside a fire, staff in his right hand.

"Again?"

"Yeah, it must be your thousandth try…Nah, it must be more."

"Why don't I remember then?"

"Come here, sit down."

Jibril sat beside the oldman and ate a piece of bread the oldman gave him. He didn't know he was hungry until the bread touched his lips.

"I'm Mikal," said the old man. "To pass the gate, we need a flower called Pani."

"We?"

"It's been my ten thousandth try. Here." Mikal gave his shawl to Jibril. He had another one underneath his previous one.

"Will it be cold?" Jibril asked.

"Cold, maybe, but difficult, yes."

Snow began to fall like ash as both of them began their journey.

Soon after a blizzard started. The snow made his feet thirsty for strength, and the blizzard robbed his eyes of any vision. His only guide was Mikal's hand grabbing him, and his only hope was Mikal's laughter, and shouting about how they can't remember their previous tries, but other people can. He told him that he had a friend once, and they both kept records of each other’s tries, but he just disappeared one day.

“So, why can’t I remember?” Jibril asked as the blizzard calmed down.

“You have to work hard. It’s not that easy.”

The snow melted, and grass danced beneath his feet.

“And then I jumped from the dune, but there was no Pani there," Mikal chuckled.

“But you said that Pani doesn’t grow there,” Jibril grinned.

“Well, I didn’t know that. It was my hundredth try, I think.” 

A semi-transparent sky-blue flower with pointed petals waved at them among the grass. Mikal plucked it and stared at it with wide eyes.

“This is it?” Jibril asked.

“Yes,” said Mikal. Jibril leaned forward to look at it closely. “Do you really want to leave?” Mikal asked.

“Of course.”

“Why?”

Jibril frowned and said, “Just give it to me.” He stretched his hand, but Mikal tucked Pani in his shawl and started running. Jibril chased him and quickly caught up with him.

“There is nothing for you there, Jibril. Nothing!”

“I can’t stay here! I have to get out,” Jibril said.

Mikal punched him in the face, and his nose bleed, giving colour to the white void. Jibril frowned and punched Mikal. He fell to the ground, Jibril grabbed his shawl and punched him in the face again and again. Blood splattered with each punch. He punched him until his fist got soaked in blood, his khaki shawl; bloody red, and Mikal’s face; unrecognizable. He patted him and took out the flower.

The black door accepted him with the flower, and he entered. It was only then; he realized that for all this time there was this scent: A sweet, calming, kind scent. Sweet began to pop out as he realized the heat, for there was no air. No sound comforted him, and the ground was getting stiffer and stiffer by the minute. Jibril turned and bashed the door, but it won’t open. Then he thought about why he wanted to go through the black door. His mind jumped from one reason to another, yet none was true. In the end, he said to himself that he entered the black door because it was the only thing different, darkness in the white, but in his heart, he wasn’t convinced about it either.

Tears dropped from his eyes as he shouted again and again, “Let me out!”