The Door in the Wall — By H.G. Wells

(An Existential Rendering of H. G. Wells’ Original Story)

Lionel Wallace was a successful public figure — intelligent, ambitious, and respected by society. Yet beneath his achievements lay a private sorrow, a restlessness he never shared with anyone.

Only once did he tell me his story: the tale of a green door he had seen in childhood.

When he was five years old, he was walking alone along a quiet street. Then he saw a tall white wall. In that wall was a small green door with an old brass handle. Nothing else about the street was unusual, and yet the door carried a strange call, as if it touched the heart itself. He could not stop himself from turning the handle.

The moment he stepped inside, he entered a garden where the colors were soft, the sunlight warm, and the atmosphere dreamlike yet not unnatural. Flowers shone in unfamiliar hues. The air felt alive. Creatures that looked like panthers came close to him — not aggressive, but filled with a childlike gentleness. He felt no fear. Perhaps for the first and last time, he felt completely at home.

Then a beautiful figure with kind eyes appeared and took the child’s hand. It seemed to know everything about him — his joy, his fear, his loneliness, the stubbornness within him. The figure led him into a gallery where images on the walls kept changing, sometimes showing his past, sometimes glimpses of a possible future.

Wallace said, “There, I felt that someone understood me from within — accepted me exactly as I was.” He may have stayed only a few moments, yet those moments were his first real experience of love.

And then the vision shattered. Someone from the outer world called his name loudly. The garden dissolved. The green door vanished. He was back on the street, and his father stood there, angry and questioning him. From that day onward, Wallace lived in two worlds: one of discipline and achievement, and another secret world that had once touched his heart.

As he grew older, he excelled in his studies and rose high in politics. Yet the green door kept appearing before him — at twelve, at fourteen, at seventeen. Each time in a different lane. Each time when he was alone. And each time he felt the inner call, yet some duty held him back. There was an exam, a debate, a promise. Necessity pulled him away, and longing remained behind.

He used to say, “I was always too busy. Too sensible. And above all, too afraid of losing my place in the world.” So he kept ignoring the door. He kept telling himself it was only a childhood fantasy. Yet whenever he saw a flash of green or a long white wall, a quiet unrest stirred within him.

At the height of his life, in the midst of a major crisis, he saw the door again. For a moment he thought of leaving everything behind — his reputation, his achievements, his outer world — and simply following the inner call. But he hesitated. Responsibilities returned once more. The crisis passed, his reputation grew stronger, but the pain within him deepened.

When he told me this story, his face carried both pride and brokenness. He said he had seen the green door one final time just a week earlier. After a political debate, he had been walking alone late at night. In a narrow, quiet alley, he saw it again — the familiar green glow, the same brass handle, as if it had been waiting all along.

He said, “I was terribly tired — a tiredness that even sleep could not relieve.” Yet he did not stop. He felt he might be losing his mind. He feared losing the world he had built. He feared stepping into a realm he could no longer explain in words. So he walked past it once more.

And then came news of his death.

Wallace was found dead in a deep pit. Workers said the fence in that area had been incomplete. People assumed he must have fallen accidentally — perhaps distracted, perhaps lost in the pressures of politics.

But I had my doubts. The place of his death was near the very alley where he had last seen the door. The workers mentioned another strange detail: there was a small gap in the fence, just wide enough for a man to pass through. And just beyond that gap stood a temporary wall, painted green.

Did he see it again? Did he believe the door had finally returned for him? Was he drawn by hope, by despair, or by some deep, uncontrollable longing?

I do not know. No one knows.

But in my mind, Wallace is still passing through that place — broken, withdrawn from the world, searching for his true home, far from ordinary life. Searching for the same garden that once called him with love, and that he spent a lifetime refusing. The same gentle sunlight, the same loving creatures, the same solitary figure who knew him from within. Wallace knew it was too late, that the green door was closing forever. In a moment of restless urgency — a desperate attempt to correct a lifetime’s mistake — perhaps in his final instant, with a childlike innocence, he believed he was finally going home.

And perhaps, in some way, he truly did return.