01 Aug The Side Gate
Arrival
They arrived just after noon. A pair — father and daughter. She pushed the wheelchair with easy rhythm, used to the incline of pavements, the friction of gravel.
The site was marked on the map with a small star: Place of Reflection.
They had driven two hours to see it.
At the front: a wide, angular staircase. Framed in shadow. Designed, clearly, to be noticed.
The Long Way Round
She paused at the base of the stairs and looked around. No signs. No alternate path in view. Her father said nothing, just looked up, then down again — a small nod toward the unspoken.
They walked left, tracing the edge of the structure. Then right.
The gravel changed to patchy grass. A narrow strip behind a low hedge opened up — and there, hidden near a service corridor, was a metal gate. Slightly ajar.
They entered.
Not Quite In
Inside, the space opened beautifully. Water. Silence. A rhythm to the stone. But the path they found themselves on — hard-packed dirt, uneven — didn’t align with the others.
There were no cues, no signage.
Visitors emerging from the main entrance looked at them with mild curiosity, as if they had come from the wrong direction.
The daughter adjusted course. Her father stayed quiet.
“Maybe this is how they designed it,” she offered, more to the air than to him.
He nodded. But the nod meant: This was not made with us in mind.
Passing Through
They completed the loop, stopping at the far edge where water met concrete. He closed his eyes. She sat beside him on the low wall.
Before leaving, they looked again toward the front steps — the ones they hadn’t used. Two more visitors were arriving, phones out, pausing to photograph the symmetry.
The daughter whispered:
“It’s strange. Everything here is quiet, but the design still says who it’s for.”
A Question Left Behind
They left through the same side gate.
She didn’t speak of it on the drive home.
But that evening, she wrote an email. Not a complaint. Not a request.
Just a question:
“Have you ever tried entering your building in a wheelchair?”