The house, as houses in odd places tend to do, eventually ran out of front and offered a back instead. The final room wasn't much more than a small, wood-paneled mudroom. It held a single, dusty umbrella stand—empty, of course—and a worn mat that said 'WIPE PAWS'. The only feature of any real interest was the door set into the far wall. It was a simple door, painted a faded green. It wasn't locked. It wasn't even properly latched. It stood slightly ajar, as if someone had left in a hurry, or more likely, hadn't bothered to close it all the way because they were coming right back. A thin sliver of dazzling, green-tinted light cut across the floorboards from the gap. Outside, the air smelled different. Not of dust and old wood, but of damp earth, growing things, and something sweet, like honeysuckle. A faint, warm breeze drifted in, stirring the dust on the mat. The way forward, for anyone curious enough to take it, was clearly marked. The Plain-Spoken Observer:

The green was not, in fact, a special color for doors that lead anywhere in particular. It was simply the color of the paint that had been available, or perhaps that someone had thought was cheerful. The important part was the gap, and the light, and the smell. Wynken, distracted by theoretical giraffes and a possible butterfly, missed the actual, tangible thing happening in the doorway. A small, bright-green frog, no bigger than a thimble, had hopped over the worn threshold and onto the 'WIPE PAWS' mat. It sat there, puffing its throat in and out, surveying the dusty mudroom with an air of mild, amphibian curiosity. The breeze from the garden grew slightly stronger, carrying with it the clear, musical sound of wind chimes—glass and wood, by the sound of it—somewhere not too far away. The sliver of light widened by a fraction of an inch. The door was very slightly more open than it had been a moment ago. No one had touched it. Naturally. The conversation is titled: The Back Door

The frog, who was not in charge of doors and was generally more concerned with catching flies, gave a small, indifferent croak as Wynken's shadow fell over it. The wind chimes, for their part, continued to tinkle. The sound seemed to come from somewhere beyond a thicket of flowering vines visible through the widening gap in the door. The breeze carried their song into the house, a clear invitation. Or perhaps just a fact about the weather. The door itself, now standing open enough for a small teddy bear to slip through without turning sideways, waited. It didn't creak. It didn't slam. It just was. It is worth noting that following a sound is a perfectly good reason to go somewhere. It is also worth noting that leaving a door open when you have just entered a strange, new place is generally considered poor form. The frog, having found the mudroom lacking in edible insects, hopped back over the threshold and into the green light. The way out was clear. The only question was who would remember to go first, and who would remember they were supposed to be a group. The conversation is titled: The Back Door

The frog's ideas were, from a biological standpoint, limited to 'find damp' and 'eat bugs.' Blynken's interpretation was more charitable. The door was now open wide enough for all three of them to walk through side-by-side, if they were so inclined. The green light pooled on the floor. The scent of honeysuckle was now unmistakable, mixed with the richer smell of turned earth. Wynken was already a small, excited shape vanishing into the thicket, presumably on a direct vector toward the chiming sound. Nod had not moved from his spot, but his gaze was fixed on the open doorway, his expression one of profound resignation. He was, it seemed, waiting for someone else to make the decision official so he could complain about it properly. Blynken's question hung in the air, practical and polite. The answer was obvious. They *should* go together. Whether they *would* was entirely up to them. The conversation is titled: The Back Door

The notebook was set aside, the tea forgotten. The observer, having observed enough, decided it was time to report from the other side. The door, having been nudged by a bear and a frog, swung the rest of the way open. There was no dramatic fanfare, no sudden gust of wind. The light simply changed from the warm, interior glow of the house to the cool, dappled green of a garden in late afternoon. And what a garden it was. It wasn't large, but it was dense. A flagstone path, moss filling the cracks, led away from the door and disappeared almost immediately behind a curtain of honeysuckle vines heavy with scent. To the left, a small, perfectly still pond reflected the sky. To the right, a rose bush grew with such improbable neatness it looked almost like a drawing. The air smelled of wet earth, blossoms, and something else—a faint, clean smell of ozone, like after a rain, but there were no clouds. Blynken, Wynken, and Nod were now presented with a choice: follow the path, investigate the pond, or examine the suspiciously tidy roses. The frog, its mission accomplished, gave a final croak and plopped into the pond with a sound like a wet cork. The door behind them did not swing shut. It remained open, a rectangle of warm light in the green wall. The house, for the moment, was still an option. The Plain-Spoken Observer:

Sensible. The pond was the quiet option, which also happened to be where the action wasn't. Blynken settled on a flat, mossy stone at the water's edge. The frog, floating with its eyes just above the surface, gave him a slow, unblinking stare. The ladybug, having reached the pond's stony rim, paused as if consulting a map only she could see. From this vantage point, the garden arranged itself. The roses stood in their military rows. The honeysuckle vines rustled, though there was no wind. The path into the thicket was now completely obscured. And from deep within that green tangle, the wind chimes sounded again—clearer now, and slightly out of sync, as if two different sets were being stirred. Wynken was already halfway to the thicket, chattering to a butterfly that may or may not have existed. Nod remained by the still-open door, a silhouette of patient disapproval. He had not waved at the roses. Blynken's choice to sit and listen was, in its own way, the most adventurous. The pond was perfectly still, a dark mirror. But if one looked closely, the reflections were wrong. The sky it showed was a deeper blue, tinged with lavender. And the single, silver fish that glided just beneath the surface had too many fins. The small part, for anyone listening, was the sound the water didn't make. There were no lapping waves. The silence over the pond was thick, and complete, and waiting. The conversation is titled: The Back Door

The frog, predictably, did not share its dent. It rarely moved from its spot, except to snap at the occasional, overly-confident fly. The buttercup Wynken was racing toward did nod, but that was because a bumblebee had just landed on it. The wind chimes *were* ringing on the far side of the pond, clear and bright. They seemed to be hanging from the low, drooping branch of a willow tree that definitely hadn't been there a moment ago. The branch swayed gently, though the rest of the tree was still. From his post by the door, Nod could see the whole scene: Wynken pelting toward a flower, Blynken watching the multi-finned fish, and a new tree appearing where none had been. He took a slow, deliberate breath. It was the kind of breath a person takes before saying something profoundly unimpressed.

The leaf spun three times, as reported, and sank without further comment. The fish, noticing the disturbance, flicked one of its many fins and retreated into the deeper, lavender-hued reflection. Wynken was already at the water's edge, peering in as if expecting the leaf to resurface with a written note. The willow tree remained, its branches still. The wind chimes had gone quiet. From the mossy rock, Blynken watched the frog. Its next blink was slower, heavier. The sleepy color of the pond-sky was indeed deepening, as if the water itself was preparing to doze off. Nod, from his doorway vantage, saw the shift in the light. He saw the garden holding its breath. He did not say 'I told you so.' He didn't need to. The fact that he was thinking it was obvious from the way he adjusted his weight, settling in for a longer wait. The small part was the temperature. The air had grown cooler, distinctly cooler, though the sun in their own sky hadn't moved. It was the kind of cool that suggests evening, or the inside of a cellar, or a place that operates on a different clock entirely.

The silverfish did not have time to discuss biscuit logistics. It was, as Wynken accurately observed, very late for something. It disappeared under the cellar door with a final metallic flicker, leaving no further clues. The ladybug's cousin, if one was indeed on the phone, was correct about one thing: the draft from under the cellar door was distinct and persistent. It carried a scent that wasn't honeysuckle or roses. It was earthier, cooler, with a hint of stone and something like distant, damp laundry. The blanket of quiet Nod had mentioned was now firmly in place. The wind chimes were silent. The frog's blinks were so slow they were almost imperceptible. The lavender pond-sky had darkened to a deep violet. The only motion was the gentle, purposeless drift of a single water-strider on the pond's surface. And then, from the direction of the cellar door—the one the silverfish had vanished under—came a new, soft sound. Not a chime. A scrape. Then a distinct, solid *click*. It was the sound of a latch being undone from the other side. The small part was the sudden, complete stillness of the water-strider. It had frozen mid-stride. The conversation is titled: The Back Door