The Door Of A Thousand Worlds

The door never opens.

Bonnie knows this, yet she waits by it every day, ears twitching, whiskers alert, staring at the sliver of light beneath its frame. Her mom calls it a patio door, but Bonnie knows better. It is a portal. Not to the simple outside world her mom believes exists beyond it, but to something far greater.

She does not need to see it. She hears it. She feels it.

She imagines it.

And what is imagined is always greater than what is real.

Tonight, the world beyond the door is alive.

Something scurries past—fast, erratic. It leaps from shadow to shadow, its tiny claws clicking against the unseen pathways above. Bonnie’s ears perk up. Her mom calls them squirrels, but she knows better.

Sky spirits.

They race along the twisting branches, leaping between realms, never touching the ground. Messengers of the Above World. They chatter in riddles, their tiny hands grasping at something unseen.

Bonnie watches, still as stone, golden eyes gleaming in the dim light. She waits. One day, they will drop it—the secret, the knowledge, the thing they clutch so desperately as they run their invisible errands. And when they do, she will be ready.

But then—a voice.

Bonnie flattens herself against the floor, tail flicking. The Intruder is here. The neighbor. The one who sits outside in a chair, speaking to beings no one else can see. Their voice rises and falls, urgent, endless. They never acknowledge Bonnie. Never look at her.

She narrows her eyes, watching from the safety of the shadows.

Perhaps she is the ghost in their world.

The air turns thick, the sky heavy. Her mom moves differently now, her voice buzzing with excitement. Bonnie senses it—the shift in the world beyond the portal.

And then—the war begins.

The sky erupts.

Cracks of thunder. Bursts of fire. Explosions of color tear the air apart. The world shakes beneath her paws. The gods are angry.

Bonnie bolts.

She races across the floor, diving beneath the couch, flattening herself against the earth. She has seen this before. Her mom calls it Fourth of July. But Bonnie knows better.

It is the Night of the Sky Battle.

The war rages on, shaking the ground, filling the air with fire and smoke. Bonnie tucks herself deeper into the shadows, eyes wide, ears pressed back.

And then—a hand.

A soft voice. Her name.

Bonnie hesitates. The war is still happening. The sky is still breaking apart. But her mom’s hand is warm, her voice steady. She creeps forward, inching toward the safety of her presence, pressing her small body against her side.

The battle outside no longer matters. Her mom is here.

She curls into a ball, tucking her nose into her paws, purring softly. The war beyond the portal will continue, but she will not be part of it.

The air changes again.

The golden world she once knew begins to fade, replaced by something else. The sky breaks apart, and tiny golden creatures begin to fall.

Bonnie stares, wide-eyed, as the little spirits dance in the air, spinning, twirling, whispering.

She reaches out—swipe.

She catches one. She sniffs. She bites.

Her mom calls them leaves, but Bonnie knows better. They are whispers of something greater, a language only she can taste.

She watches as more fall, littering the ground with riddles she does not yet understand.

But she will. One day, she will.

The portal trembles. The world shakes.

The Trash Monster has awakened.

Bonnie leaps back, heart pounding, ears flat against her head. She knows this sound—the terrible, echoing roar that rattles the earth. Her mom feeds it, tossing offerings into its gaping metal mouth. She crouches low, watching from the safety of the shadows.

One day, she thinks, the monster will want more.

One day, it will not be satisfied with scraps.

One day, it will come for her.

The air turns sharp. Cold.

Bonnie steps toward the portal, staring at the new world beyond.

The ground is white. The sky is gray.

She places one paw into the unknown and gasps.

It has no warmth. No life.

She jerks back, shaking the cold from her fur. Her mom calls it snow, but Bonnie knows better. The sky itself has fallen.

She watches it in silence, waiting, trying to understand. But then—the sky betrays her.

A low, rolling growl rumbles through the air. The walls shake. Her mom calls it thunder, but Bonnie knows better.

The gods have found her.

She runs, ears flat, tail tucked, paws barely touching the frozen ground as she leaps onto the patio chair, curling into the smallest version of herself. She tucks her head beneath her tail, hiding, waiting, hoping she will not be seen.

And then—the rain.

A thousand tiny hands claw at her fur, chasing her, demanding she leave this place.

She does not wait to find out what they want.

She bolts inside, shaking off the ghosts of the storm, returning to the only world that has ever made sense.

She leaps onto the couch, pressing herself close to her mom, kneading her paws into the blanket, purring softly. Her mom strokes her head, whispering her name, the warmth of her presence anchoring her back into reality.

The world beyond the door is unknowable.

It shifts, transforms, unravels and rebuilds itself with every passing day.

But this world, the one where her mom is, is safe.

And sometimes, Bonnie thinks, that is enough.