Nicholas didn't mean to open the door.

He'd been exploring the old manor house out of boredom more than curiosity. Nothing had happened all week—no signal, no entertainment, no escape from the endless crackling of the fireplace and his uncle's lectures on family legacy.

So when he pulled open the closet door in the attic, he expected mothballs and maybe a ghost rat or two.

Instead, the wind changed.

Instead, he stepped onto pine needles, not floorboards.

And the air—warm, wet, alive—hit him in the face like summer itself had been bottled and broken open.

He blinked, looked behind him.

The door was gone.

Ahead of him: a quiet forest lit with soft golden light, dandelions bobbing in the breeze.

And standing beneath a willow tree, arms crossed, bare feet planted in moss—

Was a boy.

Pale skin. Silver eyes. Hair the color of a rainstorm. He looked calm, but somehow...expectant.

Nicholas opened his mouth to say something—maybe "where am I?" or "sorry"—but the boy beat him to it.

"You're early," he said.

Nicholas froze. "I—what?"

The boy tilted his head. "You're not supposed to be here until the frost breaks."

Nicholas looked down at his soaked sneakers. "I didn't know I was supposed to be here at all."

A pause. Then the boy's lips curved. Not quite a smile—but something close.

"That's fair."

He stepped forward, hand extended. "I'm EJ. Forest-bound. Spirit of the Third Grove. Keeper of the Echoes."

Nicholas hesitated before taking his hand. It was cool, smooth like polished stone.

"Nicholas. Human. Very lost. Keeper of... sneakers, I guess."

EJ's laugh was soft and surprised, like he hadn't done it in a while.

"Well, Nicholas the Sneaker-Keeper," he said, turning toward a narrow path lined with glowing mushrooms. "If you're early, I suppose I'll have to keep you busy."

"Wait—busy how? Is this a test? Am I stuck here forever?"

EJ glanced back, eyes gleaming. "You ask too many questions."

"You didn't answer any!"

And yet Nicholas followed.

Over the next few days—or weeks?—time blurred.

EJ showed him the forest's secrets: where the fireflies hummed lullabies, where the trees whispered riddles, where wishes tied to branches grew roots.

They ate glowing fruit and drank rainwater from leaves. They talked about everything. And nothing. Nicholas found himself laughing more than he had in years.

Sometimes EJ looked at him like he was remembering something.

Sometimes Nicholas looked at EJ like he was trying not to want more.

One night, beneath the moon-drenched canopy, Nicholas asked, "Why did you say I was early?"

EJ hesitated. Then, softly:

"Because the one I was waiting for... always came late. Always missed me by a moment."

Nicholas stared. "You've met me before."

"In other lives. Other versions. Sometimes you never make it through. Sometimes you forget me."

"And this time?"

EJ reached out. Touched his face like he was something both sacred and breakable.

"This time, you stayed."

The portal reopened eventually.

As they stood before it—EJ glowing faintly, the trees holding their breath—Nicholas said, "What if I don't want to go?"

EJ smiled. "You'll always find your way back."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because this forest remembers you. And now, so do I."

Sequel - A Letter, a Bloom, and a Return

The Letter

It's been three months since Nicholas came back.
Three months of city air, gray skies, and waking up wondering if any of it had been real.

He told no one. Not because he didn't want to—but because there were no words. How do you explain a forest that only exists when the wind sighs just right through an attic door?

How do you explain EJ?

Nicholas had resigned himself to the ache of memory, to the taste of something half-forgotten.

Until this morning.

He reached into the coat he hadn't worn since then, hunting for earbuds.

Instead, he found a folded slip of paper tucked into the inner pocket, where no one could have slipped it—not unless they'd reached through time or magic.

The paper glowed faintly, even in daylight. A soft scent—cedar, rain, something that smelled like home—drifted up.

He opened it.

Nicholas

You were always going to leave. That is how stories work.
But I am not a chapter to be closed.

The grove remembers your laughter. The trees hum your name.

And I—
I will wait for you in the third spring bloom.

Don't be late this time.

—EJ

Nicholas stared at the paper.

Then grabbed his coat, heart thudding in a rhythm the forest had once matched.

The Bloom

Far away—where moss drinks moonlight and rivers hum lullabies—the forest begins to stir.

Buds bloom early. Dew pools into heart-shapes. A silver fox races past the old willow and does not look back.

And at the edge of the grove, beneath the branches that once whispered prophecy and promise, EJ stands still.

The world smells like spring.

He doesn't turn right away.

But when he does—slowly, like the sun cresting the horizon—his smile is already there.

A figure steps out of the misted path.

Nicholas.
A little older.
Still late.
Still exactly on time.

EJ walks forward and says nothing.

He doesn't have to.

Because this time, Nicholas runs