behind a dying door

There is more here than turquoise paint, faded and darkened with time. There is more than aging wood, beaten by the sun, and fast, heavy showers of rain that come only once or twice each winter. There is more than a lock that hides behind it a room filled with dust, shadows and decay.

It's all in the hand print - small and insignificant, small enough to be a child's, but placed higher than you would expect.

It's lost all remnants of the colour it once was, red - either with paint or blood - stamped there, with fingers wide and firm, to ward off the evil eye.

To protect the dust, shadows and decay

behind a dying door.

(Close up of the lock)