A small hollow under old spruces, the kind of place you find at the back of a storybook. Paths come in from every side, and whoever wanders down one is met with cocoa, a new name, something warm to wear and a letter that got there first. Lanterns have names here, the frost leaves handwriting, and the brook hums when it's pleased. Nothing much happens and all of it is lovely: first frosts, apple gatherings, lantern walks, a kite in the tall spruce. Open to anyone who'd like to stay awhile.