The door shuts. Now what?

Keys hit the counter. Bag slides off your shoulder. And something in you exhales and reaches in the same breath. That doorway used to have a ritual in it, the thing that said the day was over. A lot of what you're reaching for is the crossing itself.

The cigarette made itself your welcome home. You were already home. It just got there first and took the job. Take it away and you arrive half there. Coat still on, carrying the whole day, stuck with a restless hum you can't name. Unmarked endings don't disappear. They wait.

Give the doorway a new job, and make it physical. Kitchen sink, before you sit. Wash your hands, then your face, with cold water. Before the fridge. Before your phone. Water on your skin shifts your state fast enough that your body believes it. Now you've crossed.

Pray it with the water running. Wash the day off me, Lord. Same move tomorrow and the night after, until your hands head for the sink without asking. Towel off. Coat on the hook. You're home, and this time you made it all the way in.