A door sat in a field, held up by no walls, a monument to the flats that surrounded it.

The door creaked open, rustling the grass as it carved out the ground beneath it opening with nones force behind it.

To the door with no house, to the door with no walls, to the door that lay a monument to the flats. To the room within its wooden fixtures that should not be there.

Dust layering the floor and caught in the cobwebs, light climbing in through the only opening before being blended with darkness.

Hollow halls catch the small wind, swirling around the stagnant air.

Hollow halls catch what light it gets, dust ridden floors beg to change with the wind.

A monument to the plains sits arms open to the world it peeks. While wind pushes it shut once more, clicking a portal to nowhere closed among the vast nothing the plains already call claim.