Spring 2026 Contest Runner Up

The Last Door

“KEEP OUT.”

I chew my lip, twisting the plasticore ring around my wrist, fidgeting with the beam lock on my transmitter cuff as I stare at the angry red letters. My brow pulls together. I don’t understand. What’s it doing here?

Behind me, a light flashes, a steady orange pulse, the homing beacon reminding me that my job is done and it’s time to go home. I glance over my shoulder in the direction of the transport pad, and then turn back to the door, still fidgeting with my transmitter cuff.

The door is plain, wooden, white, and I swear it wasn’t here before.

My job is simple. Once I transport on-world, I find the door, walk in, pull the plug, and walk out. That’s it. One long, dark hallway. One door. There’s only ever been one door.

Tonight’s door was blue, heavy and cold to the touch, a small glass windowpane near the top. It stood there in the dark hallway, opening with a click and scraping against the floor as I pushed it open.

My hand travels up my arm, feeling the scratch, a chip in the white plasticore where it should’ve been smooth.

Sometimes I find the door and when I walk in, it’s so cold and quiet that it’s almost like I’ve already done my job. But sometimes people know I’m coming, sometimes they’re ready for me, ready to put up a fight. Not that it changes anything. My job stays the same: walk in, pull the plug, walk out.

Tonight was one of those nights, when they knew I was coming. I’d walked in through the heavy blue door and found the man lying in bed, looking up at me through glassy eyes, something like recognition flashing across his face as I entered. It was his wife who hadn’t expected me.

She’d looked confused at first, until she realized why I was there, and then, she’d come at me with fist and fury and everything she had. She’d hurled insults and threats, loosing an arsenal of objects, vases, picture frames, wine bottles and metal trays that flew at my head, my only shield against her vitriol my plasticore arm. She’d howled with rage, lunging at me with a glass bottle, scratching the plasticore of my arm. And when that failed, she’d rained blows down on me, her fists pounding against my back as I did what I came to do.

My job may be simple, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

When I walked out, her wails and cries of fury followed me. “Monster!” she screamed. I winced at the word. It stung. It always stung. “I’m just doing my job,” I wanted to say. But what was the point?

I didn’t turn around. I kept my gaze straight ahead, walking down the long, dark hallway back toward the transport pad, numb.

I wish I could say this isn’t what I signed up for, but it is, only I hadn’t realized it at the time.

The orange light of the homing beacon still pulsing behind me as I trace a finger over the scratch in my plasticore arm.

“KEEP OUT.”

I recognize that handwriting, the angry letters written in red crayon on a sheet of white paper taped to the door, just like I recognize the faint pink hand-drawn flowers you can only see when you stand close enough, the pencil marks on the doorframe, the worn brass handle that I know without even touching will jiggle when I go to grab it. And I recognize the opportunity that’s staring back at me.

I take a step forward, and then another, my heart beginning to thrum inside my chest. I gingerly reach out and touch the handle. It’s loose. It jiggles in my hand as I turn it. I slowly push the door open and walk in.

A wave of emotion hits me as soon as I enter. The room is dark, illuminated only by a small white rotating light plugged into the wall, casting the shapes of stars onto the ceiling. Books and toys are stacked in a corner, a pair of socks lay crumpled on the floor, and there’s the smell of something sweet in the air, like cereal and milk.

My eyes sweep the room until they land on the bed, where a little girl lies with the blankets pulled up to her chin. I can’t quite make her out, but I know that she’s watching. My chest tightens, and for a moment, I want to turn and run back out the door. But instead I force myself to cross and kneel down next to her.

“Hey, kiddo,” I say, my throat tight as I try to force a smile. The little girl looks at me through round, dark eyes. “How’s that arm doing?”

She blinks, eyelids heavy.

“Who are you?” Her voice is small in the darkness.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” I say, my smile turning rueful as my eyes travel over her face. Her skin is pale and her hair thin. She looks so small and fragile lying there. My heart aches knowing the pain she’s in. “But if it’s alright, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

She shifts under the blankets, pulling herself up slightly, and nods.

“Look,” I say, “I know this isn’t gonna make a lot of sense, at least not right now. But I’m gonna do my best to explain.” I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. “Some day,” I say, “a man is gonna come to your house. He’s gonna talk to you about how you’re sick, and he’s gonna tell you that he can make it so that it doesn’t hurt anymore, so that your body will never get sick. He’ll tell you that if you go with him, if you let him help you, you’ll get to go all these wonderful places and see all these amazing things.”

The little girl looks at me curiously.

“Like what?” she asks.

“Oh, like Peloris Prime and Ocra Millliardi.” I feel a smile fight its way onto my face despite myself.

“Peloris Prime,” the little girl whispers, her eyes bright with excitement. I nod, looking into those round, dark eyes that glisten with wonder.

“Nebulous Bay and the seven moons of Alegria.”

The little girl beams at me, and suddenly, I feel it all over again, the excitement, the joy, the freedom, like a spark dancing between us.

My mind is flooded with memories, of what it was like in the beginning, when the pain went away, when I went from being trapped in my little corner of the world to being able to go anywhere, do anything, see everything. I look at the light of the glowing stars cast on the ceiling reflected in the little girl’s eyes. Am I really about to take all that away from her?

My finger goes to my arm, rubbing over the scratch, and suddenly, my mind is flooded with a different kind of memory, of the woman behind the blue door, of the tears streaming down her face.

I remember every smile that’s died each time I enter a room, every tear shed, every promise of revenge. I remember every door I’ve ever walked into and back out of, every “Monster!” screamed at my back as I left.

What does the Nebulous Bay matter when you’ve seen what I’ve seen?

I look at that little girl, small and fragile and full of wonder, and I think of the weight of it all falling on her tiny shoulders, the guilt, the pain, the regret. I think of the justifications she’ll try to make to herself. “I’m just doing my job.”

It’s too much for her. It’s too much for me.

The tears are welling behind my eyes as I open my mouth to speak again. But you only get one chance to tell the truth, then it’s gone forever.

“There are other things though,” I say, “things he’s not gonna tell you, lies hidden in his promises.” The little girl looks at me, the smile vanished from her face. “So here’s what I want you to do,” I say, scooting closer to her bed. “When that man comes to your house and talks to you, when makes you all those promises and tells all the wonderful places you’ll go, this is what I want you to tell him.” I lean in and lower my voice so that the words come out in a whisper. “‘Fuck you.’”

I pull back and watch the little girl’s eyes widen.

“That’s a bad word,” she says. But I can see a smile tugging at her lips.

I laugh, tears spilling my cheeks.

“You’re right,” I say. “But I want you to say it just this once. Ok?”

She smiles sheepishly and nods.

“Ok.”

I go to wipe my arm across my eyes, stopping before the plasticore can scrape across my skin. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I use my hands to wipe away the tears, pushing myself to my feet.

It’s done.

I look down at the little girl in the bed, inhaling the sweet smell of cereal and milk, and without another word, I turn and walk out the door, pulling it closed behind me. The last door I’ll ever walk through, I tell myself.

The homing beacon is still flashing when I step out into the hallway. I spin the transmitter cuff on my wrist and switch the beam lock to on. I stop before I get to the transport pad and turn around. It’s gone, the white door with the faded pink flowers and pencil marks on the doorframe, like it was never there.

The second my boots touch the alu-base, the homing beacon stops flashing. I put in my coordinates, doublechecking that my beam lock is on, and make the call.

“Hollow-One, this is Ranger-Six-Alpha, ready for transport,” I say. “My codes are Theta-five-nine­—”

“This is Hollow-One,” a voice comes back. “Can you repeat?”

“Uh, sure,” I say, “This is Ranger-Six-Alpha for transport. My codes are—”

“I’m sorry,” the voice cuts me off again. “Repeat?”

I blink in confusion. Is there a problem with the comms?

“This is Ranger-Six-Alpha,” I say, pronouncing each syllable slowly and deliberately. “Do you read me, Hollow-One?”

The voice comes back.

“Oh, I read you, alright,” it says. “Just one question: who the hell are you?”