At the end of the path a house stands alone, rhododendrons rising around it. 

Windows look out from odd angles, some of which you can’t see but are aware of all the same, and you notice there is no door.

You have never seen a house like this, and a house like this has never seen you, strange creature, walking toward it as though in a fog.

The fog had followed you along the path, but when you brushed aside the branches of a low, hanging pine, you were met with a sky so crystalline you could see planets, far off, globed as the peonies in your grandmother’s garden.

But you are no longer in your grandmother’s garden; you are no longer at home.

Now you stand in front of a house that watches you walk toward it, its eyes tracking your footsteps along the path.

When you come to stop in front of it, it is as though your body has given up, feet bonding with the dirt below.

Except something flashes from one of the windows, light refracting back at you across the yard, and you think of comets careening across the sky; you think of the sky, giving up.

And then your feet are no longer fused to the ground and you take a tentative step forward, up the steps that appear between the branches of the rhododendron.

On the deck, an unseen hand guides you forward, your footfalls silent on the wood as you advance toward nothing.

The house has no door, but you enter it all the same.

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