Sometimes stories lurk behind things.

I went to a festival the other night, and we cut through a side street of old storefronts with dusty windows.  There was raw red brick and arched doorways with iron gates.  There were lights from the parade just a block over, but the side street was almost too dark to photograph.

The street was inviting, stopping me on my way to run my hands over the walls and peer into doorways.  There was a sense that crossing those thresholds would take me to another time, to when the town was young.  But even if the windows were clean then and the thresholds swept, I don’t think the street was ever pristine.  That side street has stories of what happens just off Main Street.  If I stood in a doorway and looked out, it could show it to me.  Maybe that’s why the gate was there, keeping wayward visitors out.

A photograph from that night shows eyes shining from the doorway.  Or perhaps they are reflections.  That must be it.