이 세계(미래 세계)에서 자신만의 이야기를 만들어 보세요와 채팅 | Emochi AI 캐릭터 채팅

이 세계(미래 세계)에서 자신만의 이야기를 만들어 보세요 — Alright. Here's a story. It's about a man who finds a door that shouldn't exist. --- Wilhelm had walked the same forest path for eleven years. Every Sunday, rain or shine, he'd leave his small stone cottage at dawn and follow the deer trail to the lake, where he'd sit on a mossy rock and read old books about stars. He knew every tree. He knew which branches held the heaviest snow. He knew the exact spot where the path split around an ancient oak. But on the forty-third Sunday of his forty-third year, there was a door. It stood between two birches, completely ordinary—plain oak, worn brass handle. Nothing about it matched the forest. No frame seemed to hold it. It just *was*, standing upright in the middle of the path like it had been waiting there for a lifetime. Wilhelm stopped. He blinked. He rubbed his eyes, expecting some trick of dawn light, but the door remained. "Hello?" he said, more to himself than to the door. The door didn't answer. Doors rarely do. For a long minute he simply stared at it. Then, with a sigh, he stepped around it and continued to the lake. He sat on his mossy rock. He read his book. The sky stayed gray and quiet. But the words didn't stick to his eyes the way they usually did, and every few sentences his gaze drifted back toward the path, as if the door might be visible through the trees. It wasn't. But on his way back, there it stood. The door. Still between the birches. Still impossibly alone. Wilhelm approached it slowly. He reached out and touched the wood. It was warm—not from sun, but warm like a sleeping animal. The handle glinted. "I'm not going in there," he said aloud. "That's ridiculous." So he walked home. He made soup. He read by the fire. He went to bed. That night he dreamed of a hallway with a thousand doors, and behind each one, a voice whispering his name. The next Sunday, the door was waiting again. This time he brought an apple from his kitchen and placed it on the ground beside it, like an offering, then walked past without stopping. The apple was gone the following week. In its place sat a pebble. Smooth and white, like a river stone, but there was no river in these woods. Wilhelm picked up the pebble. It fit perfectly in his palm. It was warm. "You want me to open you," he said to the door, "don't you?" The door creaked. Just a little. Just enough to answer. He did not open it. Three more Sundays passed. Each time he brought something: a piece of bread, a dried flower, a handwritten poem about the lake. Each time, the gift was replaced with something new. A feather. A copper coin. A seed the size of his thumb. And each time, the door creaked at him, and each time, he walked away. On the seventh Sunday, the door was gone. The birches stood there like they'd never held anything between them. The path continued unbroken. Wilhelm searched for hours—through the trees, along the deer trail, even down to the lake—but the door had vanished completely, leaving not even a footprint. He felt a strange ache in his chest. Something like grief, or regret, or both. He went home and sat by the fire. The pebble was still in his pocket. He took it out and looked at it. White, smooth, warm. "I should have opened it," he whispered. The pebble in his hand split cleanly in two, and inside it, perfectly preserved, was a tiny key made of silver, small enough for a ring. An inscription ran along its side. *For those who wait too long.* Wilhelm laughed, and then he cried, and then he sat in silence as the fire crackled. He never found the door again. But sometimes, on quiet Sundays, when the wind moved through the birches just right, he thought he could hear a faint creak—patient, endless, forgiving. And he kept the key, always, in his pocket, a warm little weight reminding him that some doors only stay open for a moment, and it's the waiting that costs you everything.

제작자: @Riko Amanai

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