Patrick had walked by the stone wall and arch with its wooden door everyday of his life. The door was always closed and locked. He’d tried once to open it, but it was locked. The handle didn’t turn an inch even after he put his entire weight into it.

He didn’t know what was beyond the gate or even who owned whatever was on the other side of the gate. No one in town seemed to know either, but they could hear the laughter that sometimes floated up and over the wall like wisps of smoke on the breeze. They could smell the heady floral scent of exotic blossoms in summer and the loamy smell of freshly turned dirt at harvest season. But no one dared to climb a ladder to get a better look over the fence. Someone had, long ago, and it didn’t end well.

For thirty years, Patrick walked by the door that was always closed on his way to work and his way home. He’d gotten into the habit of trying the latch every time he passed and the handle was worn smooth from his attempts. But the outcome was always the same, locked and closed.

One morning in late October, Patrick passed the door on his usual walk. He tried the latch like every other day, but today it turned. His breath caught as he pushed open the door on silent hinges and his eyes widened to see the garden path before his feet and smell the scent of summer still hanging in the air. Without hesitation, Patrick stepped through the archway and into the garden, the door swinging slowly shut behind him and soon his laughter could be heard floating over the wall, swirling on the breeze.