She had found the wardrobe at an estate sale, and she had lived on little more than ramen for a year after what she paid for its ancient, oaken bulk, and she had not regretted a penny or a brothy bite. Somewhere around that one-year mark, the first tender shoot of new growth popped up on the corner of one door, unfurling tiny, luminous leaves. By summer, it had branches that spread along the ceiling of her little bedroom, studded with the green beginnings of acorns, and the doors opened onto a lush forest, washed in golden light, that she had not yet been quite brave enough to enter.

















