A door is the oldest of sigils, a line drawn between the seen and the withheld, and every threshold is a small initiation. Janus kept two faces for this reason, one turned toward what has been and one toward what is yet to be, and the doors in these frames seem to remember him: the red one burning like an ember in a temple of white columns, the blue shutters folded like eyelids over a dreaming house, the green arch keeping its vigil beneath a fanlight shaped like a half-risen sun, the iron-studded slab sealed like a vow no one remembers making. Their carvings are not decoration but script, a geometry of vines and lattices and petals repeating the way karma repeats, each motif an echo of a choice, each choice folding back into the pattern until the pattern becomes a fate. Paint over paint, grain over grain, rust over iron, they are palimpsests of intention and consequence, written in a language older than the hands that made them. And the closed door keeps its paradox: it is at once the wall that keeps the world out and the cell that keeps the self in, and the one who stands before it can never be sure which side of the silence they are on. Perhaps that is the teaching. The mystics say that the final door is always within, that it has no lock, only a hinge of attention, and that it opens not when we knock, but when we finally become still enough to hear what has been waiting on the other side.