Every day, the bread maker’s daughter passed through the same narrow corridors and streets to deliver a fresh, steaming loaf of rye to her ailing great aunt. The old woman could hardly speak sensibly anymore, and it became a dreary errand. She would take her time getting there. The old woman only nibbled on a small slice of the bread anymore, so the girl often ate a fair share on the way.
One morning as she relished the fresh bread, she lingered at the park and threw crumbs to the pigeons. A calm, glistening lake sat at the center of the park and paths wound around it. Folks liked to munch on sandwiches there, let their children run about, and take private, whispering walks in pairs. A mossy, brick wall extended on one end. It was crumbling and derelict–leftover from some forgotten past. It arched its way downhill and disappeared into a patch of woods.
The girl watched a rust colored squirrel scamper across the top. Amused by the creature, she began to follow it. In this way, she came across the yellow door. The brightly painted wood stood out, and it seemed impossible that no one had noticed it before. She tucked the checkered cloth napkin around the bread and held it under her arm as she turned the knob. The door swung open noiselessly.
She jumped back when she peered beyond the open door. In her surprise, the loaf of bread tumbled to the ground. Instead of leading to the other side of the wall, the door led to a sun-filled meadow. With a glance over her shoulder, she stepped over the threshold. Almost instantly, the wall vanished from sight. She caught only the shimmer of bricks as she turned around.
A few hours later, a stray dog in the park came across the partially eaten bread. What fortune, thought the dog. It devoured every last crumb.
©2018, Sarah Day. For permissions contact: firstname.lastname@example.org.