Ronan walks down the short hallway that leads from the bedroom to the front door.
Normally, this is a walk that takes fewer than five seconds. Today, it feels like he is crossing a vast, treacherous desert. Every step is heavy, weighted down by the invisible gravity of his grief and the sheer terror of what lies on the other side of the wood and metal.
He stops in the entryway. He stands perfectly still, facing the heavy wooden front door.
For the past six days, this door has not been a way out; it has been a fortress wall, a barricade keeping the terrifying, undeniable reality of the outside world at bay. It has been the absolute boundary line of my existence, and the physical, tangible manifestation of his denial. It is the locked gate of the quarantine zone his mind built to survive
