Winter 1832 – A Lock Awaiting a Key

I tried to look at the sigil directly but doing so was like staring at the ripples of a slow moving river. It had a general pattern but no part of it stayed fixed. 

“This is a door?” I asked Father. 

The corners of his lips turned up ever so slightly. He said, “Perhaps. It might be simply a puzzle left to distract weary travelers. Or a trap for the overly curious.”