Then she walked past the birdbath, through the apple tree—which dissolved into light—and out the other side of the arch.
It was not a ruin or a cave. It was a perfect, seamless arch of obsidian, set into the cliff face, humming with a low, sub-sonic thrum she felt in her molars. No handle. No keyhole. Just a smooth, dark mirror that reflected her own dust-caked face back at her. Wanderer
She finished her water, stood up, and tightened her pack straps. Then she walked past the birdbath, through the
On the other side was her mother’s garden. Then she walked past the birdbath