It isn’t hard to imagine a wall: grey bricks, mortar between, neat, tall, 6-foot maybe. Behind the wall a narrow path disappears into the backdrop and looks as if it goes on forever. The path is leaf-strewn with colours from red to brown, green to orange. Small areas of gravel occasionally show through and we know the path will provide a satisfying crunch under foot. The doorway in the wall is arched, opens outward, fits tight, made of thick wooden planks painted almost black. A small pile of leaves sit this side of the door, not high, just enough to suggest the door has not been opened in a while. The lock is metal, no key, set to the right. The handle is also metal, waist-high, bolted to the centre of the door. A tree, maybe a Willow, grows behind and above the wall and to the left of the door. Some of its branches traverse to our side and we understand intuitively that it is possible, even easy to climb.

We hear the regular crunch, crunch of someone walking on the path. We know the sound is not that of a man, not heavy enough, not direct, not forceful enough for a man, so we think a child or maybe a woman. The tree moves, not from the breeze, a few branches dip and sway and we think someone is beginning to climb. We watch that space. We consider running, maybe hiding, but we’re too curious. Our hearts beat, our palms feel moist, our breathing quickens, our eyes flash from side to side then back to the wall. We see a hand, fingers, nails, small, very small, our breath slows, we relax, a small person, smaller than us. We focus. Now both hands, an arm and then the top of a head. Hair: shiny, brown, straight, long, maybe a girl, a young girl. The face appears, not a girl, a boy with thick brown hair falling to touch his shoulders. Small nose, angelic eyes. Is he smiling as he completes his climb and sits atop the wall legs dangling on our side, arms crossed. Is he singing? Humming softly, maybe.

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