The Blue Door in the Frame

Orla was seventy-two years old. Her daughter Kira gave her a photo frame. It was a birthday gift. It was a thin, white screen. It showed a new picture every minute.

"It shows your old photos," said Kira. "I put three hundred pictures inside."

Orla loved it. She showed it to her friends. She put the frame on the shelf in her kitchen. In the evenings, she drank tea and watched it. She saw her husband in a blue boat. She saw Kira as a baby. She saw her old dog, Bean.

But one photo was strange.

Every night at nine, the frame showed a blue door. It was a plain wooden door. It had a brass number, 14. There was a yellow flower pot on the step. There was no person in the photo.

Orla did not know the door. She did not know the house. She did not know the street. She looked at it for a long time. The photo stayed on the screen for a whole minute.

On the third night, she called Kira.

"I see a blue door every night," she said. "Number fourteen. Did you put it in the frame?"

"Maybe," said Kira. "I used a big box of old photos. It was in Dad's desk. I did not look at each one."

"Whose door is it?"

"I do not know, Mum," said Kira. "Sorry."

Orla sat in the kitchen and thought. She did not know the street. She did not know the flower pot. But the door felt like a very old song. She could almost remember it. It made her heart beat fast.

The next morning, she looked at the frame. There was a small button. She pressed it. The screen showed some words under the photo. It said, "Maple Street, 1958."

"Maple Street," Orla said. "Oh!"

Her mother's voice came into her head. "Come home, Orla. Dinner is ready." Her mother stood in a door. A blue door.

That afternoon, Orla put on her coat. She took a bus across the town. She walked up Maple Street slowly. The houses were old and tall. The trees were big. A boy rode past her on a bike. He rang his bell.

At number fourteen, she stopped. The door was not blue now. It was green. The step was the same. But the flower pot was gone.

Orla stood there for a minute. Then an old woman opened the door.

"Hello," said the woman. "Can I help you?"

"I lived here," said Orla. "A long time ago. I was five."

"Come in," said the woman. "I have tea. I can show you the kitchen."

Orla looked at the green door one more time. She wiped her eyes and smiled. She walked inside. The floor still made the same small sound.

That night at nine o'clock, she sat in her kitchen. The frame showed a new picture. It was a red door with the number twenty-two.

Orla put down her cup. She looked at the photo. Then she went to find her coat.