3. THE DOOR

Now, dear reader, there are moments in a story when everything goes still and quiet, and you can feel that something is about to happen.

This was one of those moments.

Holly and Grandad had just found a door.

Then the carvings began to glow, faint blue at first, then brighter. Light raced along every groove and line, branching outward across the stone like roots finding water. The cold little draft grew warmer, and stronger.

And somewhere deep inside the rock, something gave a single, quiet

click.

Holly sat back on her heels. Her heart was going very fast.

“Grandad,” she whispered. “I think we found it.”

Grandad Fir looked at the glowing stone.

“Yes,” he said softly.

The spring trickled quietly beside them. The carvings glowed a soft, steady blue.

Holly didn’t move.

“Grandad,” she whispered.

“I know,” said Grandad.

“What do we do?”

“Hmmm.”

The breeze from the crack had changed. It wasn’t cold anymore. It felt fresh, like air after rain. Holly leaned closer.

The roots moved, only slightly. A tremor, as though the tree had taken a slow, sleepy breath. The ivy loosened. Moss fell from the carvings.

And a narrow seam appeared, behind everything that had been so carefully grown to hide it.

A door.

Round. Ancient. Covered in the same leaf carvings as the stone. It didn’t look grand, or particularly magical. It just looked old, very old, as though it had been shut away in the dark and forgotten about.

Holly stared. Grandad Fir took a slow breath and went very still.

The blue glow pulsed once, like a heartbeat.

Then… the door clicked.

Holly froze. Grandad froze.

The click came again, a little louder this time. The spring bubbled. Somewhere far away in the village, somebody shouted something about runaway mushrooms.

The blue light slipped through the carvings,  one symbol lit, then another, then another. The door gave a small, quiet shiver. Just enough to notice.

Holly’s leaf stood up.

A thin line of light appeared around the frame.

The crack widened, only a little, but enough.

And through it, Holly saw a rainbow of colours. Green. Blue. Gold. Shapes moving too quickly to catch. The door was tiny, and yet the world on the other side felt vast.

Holly’s stomach gave a small, excited flutter.

“Grandad.”

He looked at the widening crack. The shifting light. Holly looked at it too.

Then Grandad Fir did something Holly had never seen him do before. He smiled, not his ordinary smile. His other one. The one that meant something mattered very much.

“Holly.”

“Yes?”

“I think we should fetch Grandma Hazel.”

That was a very sensible suggestion. Possibly the most sensible thing said all day.

Holly nodded. She turned and ran.

Past the spring. Past the roots. Past the suspicious mushrooms. Past a squirrel carrying somebody else’s biscuit.

The squirrel looked guilty.

The village blurred past in a rush of mossy paths and tiny round windows. She burst through the kitchen door so fast the copper kettle rattled.

“Holly!” said Grandma Hazel. “Why are you running?”

“We found a spirit door!”

Grandma Hazel stirred her kettle. “Mm-hm.”

“A real one!”

“Very nice, dear.”

“At the spring!”

“Lovely.”

“With Grandad!”

“Excellent.”

Grandma Hazel continued stirring. Holly stared at her.

“It’s opening.”

The spoon stopped.

For a moment Grandma Hazel didn’t move at all. Then, very slowly, she looked up.

“A what?”

“The spirit door. The hidden one. The one at the spring. The one that’s opening.”

The kettle bubbled. Grandma Hazel blinked once. Then twice.

Then she set down her spoon. Very carefully.

“Show me.”

You completed Chapter 3