The Orchard on the Hill
The orchard is older than anything you've ever climbed. The apple trees lean together like grandmothers sharing secrets, and the grass between them is deep enough to lose a shoe in.
At the very top of the hill stands the strangest tree of all — split right down the middle, long ago, by lightning. The two halves grew on anyway, curving apart and then back together, so the whole tree makes a shape like a doorway.
You step closer. The air inside the split tree shivers, the way air does over a hot road. For half a second you'd swear you can smell rain on the other side of it — rain, and something sweet, like flowers that don't grow here.
“Madisonnnn! Supper!” Aunt Bee's voice floats up the hill.
You look back at the tree. The shiver is gone. Probably it was nothing. Probably.