There is a man that stands behind the mountain. He wears a very large cloak, one that to an individual would look far too big, but to him, it is perfect. The hood is perfectly sized to fit his head and hide his face, and the coat of it is just large enough for him to appear bigger but not too large to where it drags against any surface he may walk on.

Specifically the surface of the mountain.

Every third Wednesday of each month, he finds himself at the heel of the mountain. Though, he has yet to climb it— to step foot on the first rock that marks the path to the Door, there is not one month that he misses.

There are legends of the Door; of what is behind it. There are legends as to what an individual who walks the path will see, feel. Legends, tales, both good and bad. But when one hears these stories, the bad is what is remembered and feared.

But on the third Wednesday of the third month, the man in the very large cloak stands behind the mountain and walks past the first rock.

This mountain stands in the midst of the clouds and falls in a green forest. Trees surround it and part where the path begins.

He continues his walk up the path. He has made it a couple of feet and no legends or tales have been proven to be true, so he relaxes and continues with confidence.

The man in the very large cloak begins to tire as he climbs the steep mountain. Sweat lines his forehead and his breaths shorten. His legs feel like limp flowers, and his feet throb.

He begins to think about his home in the village: his bed that waits for him, the food that calls for him, and the coolness of temperature that readies for him.

His steps begin to slow, then finally come to a stop. He sits on the dirt path not caring for his clothes or the Door that he so often claims he wants to see.

He removes his hood and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his cloak and decides he will take a quick break. He will simply rest his eyes for just a moment and then continue his journey.

But when is eyelids begin to feel like weights tied to his lashes, he jolts at a sound behind him. Trees rustle, and he tells himself it is an animal. He is surrounded by trees; of course it is an animal.

The sound comes closer, creeping up his spine into the space between his cloak and his chest. He inhales whatever ounce of air is near and brings his fingers to his ears; it is the only way to drown the loud beat of his heart, but it only gets louder.

He rises.

Wipes the dirt from his cloak.

And runs.

The trees around him begin to shake. He did not look to where he ran but it is when a branch falls at his feet that he realizes he is only a couple of feet from the mountain’s peak.

This realization only makes the trees angrier. They call the wind to join forces, and the man in the cloak fights against it. He pushes with all of his might, every ounce of strength he can muster.

Trees whisper, wind howls, and the path he walks shakes with fury.

He is so close to surrendering. So close to drawing the white flag he keeps hidden, until the path stops shaking, the trees pick up the leaves they have dropped and turn their heads from him, and the wind stops it’s cries and begins to sing.

Alexander slowly let’s go of the grip he has on his cloak and drops to the ground. He claws at his throat begging for it to open— to take air and gift his lungs with it, but with his hands on his throat, he looks up.

The sky has cleared above the mountain. The sun wakes. The grass that sits at its peak waves at him, and that is when he takes his first breath.

The Door sits at the top of the mountain untouched, pristine. Not one scratch marks its service and not one smudge stains it.

It has been waiting.

For him.