There are places in this world that don’t show up on any map. They don’t have addresses or visiting hours. You can’t search for them. They find you — usually when you’ve stopped looking, when you’re searching for something else entirely.
That’s how it was with the treehouse.
Alex was looking for Rosie.
She’d been calling her name for ten minutes, moving through unfamiliar paths, carrying that particular worry dog owners know — the one that sits just below panic. Then she heard it. A sound above her. Familiar. Settled. Completely unconcerned.
She looked up.
The rope ladder hung down just far enough, as if it had been measuring the distance for some time. The wood was old but solid, worn smooth where hands had touched it most. The leaves moved even when the wind didn’t.
Some places carry their own presence. Their own quiet authority. A soul that lives in the wood and the air and the quality of the light. You feel it before you understand it.
Alex climbed.
Rosie was already curled up like she owned the place.
And in the shadows, something ruffled its feathers with great dignity.
“Alexandra. We wondered when you’d arrive.”
Such a magical read. I love the transition from the panic of looking for Rosie to the ‘quiet authority’ of the treehouse. You have such a gift for setting a scene, I could see myself there. I can’t wait to see what happens next.