The place isn't always easy to find. It moves around when no one's looking. Sometimes it's an old shack or a gingerbread house, or the apartment on the third floor that smells like cabbage and cat. Sometimes it's a pile of rocks that used to be a castle looming in the fog.
Tonight, it's an old willow, a gnarled beast of a tree arthritic branches looming over the crossroads where no one travels anymore, under a mist-shrouded moon on a night flavoured with a hint of Bella Legosi.
It's a night for shuttered windows. It's a night to be a million miles away, enjoying a hot cup in front of a crackling fire, a lazy hound at your feet. Instead, there is only fog. And moonlight. And an old willow tree.
There's no point in turning back. Roads can only go forward.
Just as expected, there's a hole, right there between two massive club-footed roots. Maybe a rabbit hole, maybe the abyss.
The hole is silent, black. Moonlight knows where it's not wanted. It could lead anywhere. It could be anything. . .
Except, of course, a hole in the roots of an old willow tree.
Roads can only go forward.
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