The Hour the Gates Remember

Someone left these standing open, a long time ago, and the castle never asked them to close again. Maybe whoever lived behind those crests is still there. Maybe the place just decided the path mattered more than the gate ever did. Either way, the morning comes in soft and gold and unbothered, mist still deciding whether to lift off the lawn, the towers waiting the way old places wait, patient, a little smug about how long they've already stood.

Nobody's walking up that path right now. That's almost the point. Some doorways don't need a traveler to mean something. They just need to still be open when someone finally looks.