Hold the Door

The note was taped to the elevator wall on a Monday.

Plain paper. Black ink. Careful handwriting.

If you are reading this, please press the door open button for a moment. It helps more than you think.

No name. No explanation.

Most people glanced at it, frowned, and forgot it by the time they reached their floor.

I didn’t.

That building had slow elevators, the kind that made impatience a daily habit. People sighed loudly. They stared at their phones as if staring harder might hurry the cables. Pressing the door-open button felt pointless, ceremonial at best.

Still, the next morning, I pressed it.

Just for a second.

Nothing happened. The doors closed anyway. The elevator rose with its familiar groan.

On Tuesday, the note was still there.

On Wednesday too.

Thursday morning, a man got on with a walker. His hands shook as he adjusted his grip. Someone sighed behind me. The doors started to close too quickly.

Without thinking, I pressed the button.

The doors paused.

Just long enough.

The man nodded once, eyes meeting mine, a look that carried something heavier than gratitude. Recognition, maybe. Or relief.

That afternoon, the note was gone.

In its place, a new one appeared the following week.

Thank you for waiting. Some days, that’s the only kindness that arrives.

Again, no name.

People began to talk.

“Have you seen the notes?”

“Probably some management nonsense.”

“Maybe a social experiment.”

Someone tore one down. Another appeared the next day, taped slightly higher, as if whoever placed it had anticipated resistance.

I started pressing the door-open button every time. Not dramatically. Just a beat longer than necessary.

I noticed others doing the same.

A woman with headphones. A teenager with paint on his hands. A man in a suit who looked perpetually late to his own life.

No one said anything about it.

Then one morning, the elevator stopped on the third floor longer than usual. The doors opened to an empty hallway. No one entered.

Just before they closed again, a woman’s voice said, “Sorry.”

She stepped in slowly, carrying a box filled with files and loose photographs.

“I thought I’d missed it,” she said, not to anyone in particular.

“You didn’t,” I replied.

She smiled, tired but genuine.

The box tipped slightly. A photograph slid out and landed face-up on the floor.

It showed the same building, decades earlier. The lobby looked brighter then. Less tired. Two people stood near the entrance, younger, laughing at something outside the frame.

She noticed me looking.

“That’s my husband,” she said. “He used to hate elevators. Said they made him feel trapped.”

“What changed?” I asked.

“He got sick,” she said simply. “Stairs stopped being an option.”

The elevator hummed upward.

“He passed last year,” she added, adjusting the box. “I still work here. Didn’t see the point of stopping.”

The doors opened at her floor. She hesitated, then turned back.

“Whoever keeps writing those notes,” she said, “they’re doing good work.”

She stepped out before I could respond.

That evening, I found the last note.

It was smaller. Folded.

I won’t be leaving these anymore. You’ve learned the habit. That was the point.

Underneath, in lighter ink:

Be gentle where you can. You never know who is still learning how to arrive.

The notes never returned.

But the habit stayed.

People still hold doors. Still wait an extra second. Still look up when someone rushes in last-minute.

The elevator is just as slow.

The building just as worn.

But something invisible moves differently now.

I don’t know who wrote the notes.

Sometimes I think it was someone grieving.

Sometimes I think it was someone preparing to leave.

Or maybe it was just someone who realized that small delays can be acts of mercy, and decided to teach that lesson quietly, without applause.

Either way, the message remains.

Not everything meaningful announces itself.

Some things only ask you to pause.

******

Thank you for reading.

This piece sits close to me. Fiction has never come easily. Each time I try to wander too far into imagination, I find myself pulled back toward real life, toward things that actually happened, or almost did. I often lose the thread and let it go.

The piece below is my first attempt at staying with a fictional world without fully escaping reality. I don’t know why, but that space in between is where I end up writing. Maybe that’s my way of telling stories.

I hope you find something here that feels true to you.

A sincere thank you

To Novel Allen, Andrea Corwin, Doc Sherwood, and Natalie Wilkinson. Your kindness, encouragement, and shoutouts meant more than you know. Writing is often a quiet, solitary act, and moments like these remind me that words do find their way to generous readers. Thank you for the love, the support, and for making this space feel less lonely.