Not locked.

Not guarded.

Not watched through a grate or barred at eight o’clock against a danger that had, all along, been living on the inside.

Just open — a room in a house that had finally stopped confusing secrecy with safety.

The sisters passed the propped-open door all day, and passed the plaque of melted bolts with its single hard date, and something in the house eased that had been clenched for years without anyone naming it.

No one closed the infirmary door that morning.

No one closed it the next morning either.

In time, propping it open stopped being a statement and became simply the way things were.