From the Memoirs of Canon Nileno Nirith As a child, I took great pains to avoid the Waiting Door. We weren't wealthy by any means, so our family shrine was really no more than a small shelf. I remember that my mother would polish it every Morndas eve, singing all the while. But despite all the songs and joyful communions, there was something about that space that set my skin to crawl—like going into a dark basement by candlelight or waking suddenly from a bad dream. In that moment I saw the face of my grandfather—the face of my ancestors. And from that point onward, I was never afraid.