You wander back and forth, contemplating which door to enter.

As you pass the dull wooden door, a crisp breeze lapses at your skin. It carries with it the scent of an autumnal forest, and the sounds of rustling leaves. For a reason you can't understand, your hand feels drawn to the handle, as if by some invisible string. You snap back to your senses as you step in a small puddle of blood flowing from under the door. This time, you're sure it's not just more weird slime. It seems it was spilled just moments ago, but from what veins?

As you pass the saloon doors, another cool wind passes through. This one, however, is dry as a fossil, and delivers the dusty air of some cavern. Somewhere not too far off, you can hear a muffled banjo; and further, the unmistakable, rhythmic clinking of metal against rock. The twisted rock walls just past the saloon doors are clearly visible and require little explanation, of course.

As you pass the neon door, the air is still. Despite being made of glass, you can't see through the pane. The only thing betraying what lies beyond is noises characteristic of a busy cityscape. In addition to the typical chattering and bustling, there's also some mechanical whirring, buzzing neon lights, and a radio prattling words you can't quite hear.

As you pass the wavy door, the air grows balmy and salty. Over the ambience of waves crashing in the distance, you can hear a conversation between two young kids. Despite seeming to be right behind the door, you can't quite make out their words.