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As a result, you’ve stumbled across a hidden corner of The Owl Hours: a little gate at the bottom of the garden, that nobody else looked closely enough to find. It was obscured by ivy, it’s true, but you’ve always liked looking a little closer. Just to make sure. Just to see what’s there.
You push open the gate, noticing that it doesn’t creak. For all its concealment, this is new, not something that had been forgotten about and left to rust. You wonder at that for just a moment, before your attention snags on the path that now lies before you, winding away through the trees. A few lanterns hang from the branches, casting golden pools of light in the gloaming of the forest.
You step away from the gate, heading down the path, and a hush seems to fall as soon as you’re away from the garden. You try to remember if forests are usually this quiet, at this time of day. Decide that they’re probably not.
But time and space move differently here, out on the edges of the web. The rules aren’t quite what they seem. Maybe all the insects and animals and the shush-shush-shush of the incessant stream of information have gone to bed early. Maybe it’s later than you thought.
You reach the first lantern along the path and stare up at it. From the gate, you’d thought it was made of plain white paper. But standing here, you can make out the dark lines of text.
These are the pages of a book.
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