Somewhere, at the end of the journey, lies the undoor, the door that does not open. After long searching, down a deep and circuitous venture into the roots of the mountains, H/P comes to the sealed door, carved by ancient hands. Nothing can open the door — the door’s purpose is not to open. Still, coming to the door, H/P must pass through it. And willing it so, he does — and finds himself on the other side, in a new world that is identical to the old.
He walks out of the roots, up underneath the bright sun, and out into the New World. No one in it knows or believes there was ever anything other than this New World. But H/P knows — H/P knows that he has slipped between the worlds of if, and found himself in a new place, where anything is still possible. Where before there was fate, and the Door, now, there is freedom, and the wide open space of that which is not yet known.
He goes on, not to confront his destiny, but to create it.