The rector almost overlooked the door. It wasn’t particularly impressive, after all, nor was it placed in a prominent location in the cathedral. Instead it was tucked behind a corner in the narthex, a plain wooden door, without handle or key, with no raised panels or mouldings to mark it off.
He might have thought it served some utilitarian function — hiding plumbing or electrical circuits, perhaps, if he hadn’t noticed the old, wrought iron hinges that it sported. Curious, he approached the sextant, who accompanied him back to look upon it.
“I’ve never seen it before!” the sextant exclaimed, “And I’ve been in charge of the fabric of this cathedral for four-and-twenty years.” they repaired to the rector’s office and searched diligently through the old plans of the building, seeking some explanation.
It was the bishop who told them what it was, many hours later, when they returned to the alcove with hammer, screwdriver, and pry-bar to make the old wood yield to their desire to find out what lay beyond it.
“It is no great secret,” he told them. “Each place has such a door, though in the rush of life we often ignore it. It is memory.”
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