In the woods behind the woods behind unsuspecting houses, in a place between somewhere and somewhere else, there was an old stone wall. It stretched across a small, secluded dell like a miniature bridge between two sides of a dried-up river, and it had the aura of a place imagined by children long since gone.

The structure was not more than several yards across, two-or-so feet tall at its center and approximately the same in width along the relatively level span that disappeared into opposing slopes of soil and roots. The stonework was weathered, yet sturdy enough to have the potential to be everlasting, a possibility not yet disproved. It was, perhaps, the lone piece of evidence that mankind had once attempted to bring its notions of borders and crossings to the dell. The wall was largely unadorned, except for a small, barely-noticeable opening in the shape of a semicircular arch scarcely four inches in radius where it met the valley’s dry trough. Perhaps it was a product of natural erosion, or perhaps it was designed by one who tended toward whimsy, something similar to a fairy door without the requirement of woodwork. Someone might have wondered these things, if there had been those around who could wonder, but there were not.

On a particular late afternoon of an equally late autumn of a year long since lost, a songbird scarcely four inches from beak to tail had the thought to fly down from a branch on a nearby tree to the familiar brief perch atop the stone wall. It always felt comfortable to perch there for a moment before flying to another nearby tree. The songbird did not question this, for she did not question things that brought her comfort. She did not know what type of songbird she was, but she knew she was a bird of song, and she knew her name was Bree.

A favorite spot on the wall
A quick look around, a quick look at home
For any reason not to indulge
In a blissful moment of claw upon stone

Bree's eye was drawn to something
In the bright red and orange leaves
That stuffed the arched opening under the wall
And Bree changed course
With her bright red and orange feathers
That matched so perfectly with her first fall

And she knew she could trust this feeling
Though it was quite distinct
From the feelings she knew intimately
In her own instinct

But still it felt right
And she was curious
And there was a stillness
And claw disturbed leaf
And the colors matched so perfectly
But Bree scarcely noticed as she went to work
In a process much like making a nest in reverse...

Driven to pierce the wall
A quick look around, a quick look at home
For any reason not to indulge
In this frenzied movement, though Bree was alone

Leaf, darkness
Leaf, darkness
Leaf, darkness
Leaf, darkness
Leaf, darkness
Leaf, darkness
Leaf, darkness
Leaf, darkness
Light

Light poured through,
a strange light that felt distant,
As if it were that faintly-remembered glow
From the perspective of her mother’s nest
So many days ago,
Filtering through living leaves above,
now filtering through dead leaves below.

And she knew she could trust this light
Though it was quite distinct
From any light she knew was real
Before she reached this brink

And Bree pushed through
And Bree looked around
Still among leaves
Still on the ground
And she saw that there were no warmly-colored leaves on the forest floor
And the promises of the wind were much more hopeful than before
And the warmth she felt was warmth of comfort she could not ignore
Because she did not question things that brought her comfort
But she could always use more

Bree then decided to get a better view
As a songbird like Bree would instinctively do
So she took off from the ground
With a graceful flap of wing
To perch upon a nearby branch...
And then she saw everything.

The sun was bright, but it was muted by the lush leaves above and around, and its rays were scattered like luminescent pollen upon the dense, leafy underbrush, upon the patches of moss upon familiar speckled rocks, upon the wildflowers growing brazenly and brightly for the insects to find, and of course, upon the stone wall itself. It was the sight Bree imagined when she felt an idyllic morning warmth upon a soon-to-open eyelid, full of all of the promise of a perfect sunrise.

Adjusting her footing as habit and instinct would often dictate, she heard her own rapid heartbeat before she realized what she was hearing from her surroundings: the sounds of life. Vibrant, renewed life. It was not just the distant bird calls of other types of birds, or the faint sounds of the insects that were long gone only moments before. It was also the crispness of it all, the freshness, the hopefulness that made a sound itself. The woods rang with a song more beautiful than even Bree could sing. And yet, it was an invitation for accompaniment, and Bree happily, yet inquisitively, obliged.

Her voice rang out over the dell, and she listened for the answer she knew would come: her name, a simple reassurance of familial memory. She shared the name Bree with all of the other songbirds of her family, differentiated by pitch and tone for each individual. And it did come, a voice very much like her own, calling out her name.

Bree, Bree
Bree, Bree
She heard a response that confers
A name, a Bree, not hers

She tried again, another pitch
More similar to her own
A moment, a call that nearly lures:
A name, a Bree, not hers

She started to feel her heart Fall-ter
So she hopped and hoped her perch would alter
Something, something...

Where was she going?
Back to the wall?
Comfort was all around her
Yet no kin at call
Back to the wall
Back to her favorite spot on the wall

She looked around one more time
At all the beauty she thought was gone
And jumped down to the ground, and through the hole
To ground herself in the less-wrong

-

As her eyes adjusted, no pleasant sight greeted Bree, nor did anything else offer anything like a greeting. The world she had accepted as reality only a small while earlier was so much more like the sorrowful goodbye of a sunset under clouds. Dark and darkening, the sun was still shining in the sky, but only for its weak beams to accentuate the beginnings of unknown decay.

But it was where she belonged, and so Bree was glad it was still there, as she could not have been certain until she saw it for herself. She felt the slight give of a brittle leaf underfoot and, without hesitation, flew up to a bare branch.

The declining scene before her, despite its lack of promise of any bright future upon the horizon, brought Bree a rise of unexplained comfort, and she did not question things that brought her comfort. And as the next logical action any songbird like Bree would find perfectly natural, Bree sang her call, expecting her pitch of name in response.

Bree, Bree
Bree, Bree
A ghostly response that confers
A name, a Bree, not hers

She tried again, another pitch
Less similar to her own
A moment, a call that nearly lures:
A name, a Bree, not hers

Again and again
Her pulse quickening
Her movements frantic
Her soul sickening

Branch to branch to branch to branch to branch to branch to branch...

Call, response, a Bree, not hers
A louder
Call, response, a Bree, not hers
A strained
Call, response, a Bree, not hers
A breathless
Call, response, a Bree, not hers
An exhausted
Call, response, a Bree, not hers
A fainting
Call...

Bree awoke upon a cushion of leaves, red with only their own color. She gingerly hopped to her feet with a shake of her feathers and looked around. She was still where she knew she was last, and the day hardly had progressed, though the sun was very low in the sky. Bree tested her wings, flying just up to her favorite stone on the wall. They were unsteady for takeoff, but she was able to quickly regain control. Bree then flew to a higher branch again. She had the urge to sing her call.

But she did not, for it no longer brought her comfort.

Bree paused, as she could not find a next action to bring her comfort so easily, looking around haphazardly at her surroundings to keep moving. A tree, a leaf, a squirrel burying something, the wall, the opening.

The world beyond the opening was unfamiliar and lonely, but now this one was, too. And there was a chance that she could be heard on the other side this time. And so, she flew to a branch, another branch, the favorite spot, the ground, and through the opening yet again.

+

The return to the bright and hopeful greenery of the other side was lovely at first, the promising rays of morning-like sunshine slightly warming Bree’s feathers. She fanned her wings out a little in response before gathering herself quickly and flying to a nearby branch. This was comfortable, but there was still hesitation in her movements as she looked around (tree, flower, squirrel running off, wall, opening) while deliberating her call. There was something different about the sun, but it was comforting, and she did not question things that brought her comfort.

Her instinct to sing eventually won over her momentary indecisiveness. She sang her call.

Bree, Bree
Bree, Bree
An expected response that confers
A name, a Bree, not hers

Bree, Bree
Bree, Bree
That expected response that confers
A name, a Bree, not hers

There was precedent for this now, so the despair was accordingly dulled. Bree welcomed this, as it was at least relative comfort compared with what she had experienced the last time. Still, with that, the novelty of the bright world was quickly fading, and the opening was the only way forward. It drew her eye more now, and she did not stop at her favorite spot on the wall before landing upon the soft grass nearby.

She looked once more to the trees above and felt how she felt when she woke up a little earlier than expected. Then, without further hesitation, she darted through.

-

On the side of waning sunset, Bree felt less than she did before: less of dread, less of hope. Still, she gave her call, and received the same impersonal response. Her family was there, but she was alone, and the repetition only reinforced the expectation further.

She did not waste any time before moving back through the opening.

+

And so, Bree began to oscillate.

- + - + - + - + - + -

Bree’s world was dimming to match the darkness of the tunnel under the stone wall, and this felt perfectly natural to Bree. After all, it was meant to be dark soon in the world where she awoke, and it would be time to sleep soon after. But both worlds were dimming at equal rates, and Bree was not feeling tired at all. In fact, she felt lighter and more agile with each pass through the opening. As she moved back and forth with increasing speed, the two worlds started to blur in her perception. All of her attention was upon the cyclical motion, and upon the opening.

She did not question this. She would not. There was another sensation, one that was steadily taking over. A sensation of comfort, and a presence of a singular multitude beckoning her out of Time itself...