It was just an ordinary Tuesday when I stumbled upon it.
I had been weeding the back garden—grumbling about how unfair it was to be assigned chores on the first day of summer break—when my trowel hit something hard. At first, I thought it was just another old rock, but as I brushed away the ivy, a curved edge appeared. Wood. A door.
Not a shed door. Not a basement hatch. A full wooden door set right into the garden wall, framed by bricks that had somehow escaped my attention for the past ten years of living here.
There was no handle, just a small bronze keyhole shaped like a flower. I didn’t have a key, but I didn’t need one. As I pressed my hand to the door, it creaked open just enough to reveal a sliver of light.
Inside, the air shimmered like heat on pavement. The scent of wild roses filled my nose, and distant music echoed—soft flutes and gentle bells. I stepped through, not thinking, only feeling.
Beyond the door was another garden, but not like mine. The trees shimmered with silver leaves, and glowing butterflies danced in slow spirals through the air. A stone path wound past fountains and floating lanterns. At the center stood a tree with a spiral staircase carved into its trunk.
A voice whispered: *"You’ve been chosen, storyteller."*
I turned, but no one was there. Only the soft rustling of enchanted wind.
I don’t remember how long I stayed, but when I stepped back through the door, the sky was dark, and the door had vanished.
My parents didn’t believe me. My brother laughed.
But every night since, I’ve found silver leaves on my pillow.
And I keep checking the garden wall.