Windchimes.

A mess of strings, glass, and shiny metallic objects dance in the breeze above my head.

The window to my right opens wide to a world of blue skies, tree tops, and singing birds. An assortment of plants decorates the small ledge and vines crawl up from below to frame it. Jasmine mingles with other floral scents. I try to sit up but wince as pain stabs through my head. My fingers discover a lump the size of a baseball behind my ear.

I remember the open field. A trail of red. The gorge as it crumbled under my feet and the fox sitting on a log, watching as I fell. It was injured. I injured it. But now it will likely die slowly—painfully—from its wound. All because of me.

Someone hums off to the left. Eli? No, Eli never hums. He is silent as the dead, and especially lately, to the point I can’t get a word out of him.

I force past the throbbing in my head and sit up to touch bare feet to the wooden plank floor, pausing as the world spins. I grip the edge of the bed and cram my eyes shut. When I open them, I see a pair of boots sitting neatly at the end. My boots.

Over half a dozen open windows all around the room invite the breeze to flow freely through the space. An enormous trunk of a tree rises through the center of the space, its branches stretching up through the arcing roof where a vast collection of homemade wind chimes flutter and wave. Shelves cover the walls, displaying an array of miscellaneous trash: rusty watches, wooden statues, silverware, and faded porcelain dolls with missing eyes. An old wood stove sits on the far end of the room, tucked between a pile of firewood and an old lazy boy recliner with holes and springs popping out in places. Steam curls from the spout of a black teapot sitting on the stove.

A wiry old man walks up to it, lifting the lid and peeking inside. His scraggly gray and white striped beard brings a skunk to mind. From behind he looks like a pile of rags with two skinny legs poking out. He hums as he pours tea into a chipped, porcelain teacup.

Keeping my eyes on the old man, I stand but the world blinks to black. I grit my teeth, reaching out to steady myself on the bed. Everything returns like a prickling powerpoint slide and I stumble over to my boots.

“Did you want your stuff before you leave?”

His deep voice turns up at the edges as if he has a dog’s squeaker toy stuck in his throat.

“It’s just over there by the perennial specimens.”

He juts a finger at the table behind him across the room. Jars holding dried flowers of every color and shape are piled high on top of each other. In the middle sits my knife, jacket, and empty quiver; my bow is missing.

Leave, now.

It could be a trap. Under any other circumstances that's exactly where my kind would go. But the man already had me unconscious. Why bother with a trap?

“Who are you?” I ask.

He finally turns around giving me a yellow-toothed grin as he sips his tea. His eyebrows remind me of white caterpillars, the type my brother and I would find on my Uncle’s farm out on the potato plants.

“Jolmus Pottimer, but you can call me Jol. Pleased to make your acquaintance…”

I cut him a wary look. “What am I doing here?”

“I found you all washed up by the river. Got a nasty bump to the head so I thought I’d help you out.”

I glance between him and my knife. He throws back his drink and turns around to pour another.

“Tea?” he asks with his back turned.

I take the opportunity to swipe my things, keeping the knife on hand, and head for the door just five steps away. But as I step outside, my heart leaps into my throat. I see grass, but it is far, far below. The small ledge I stand on stops short, holding no railing, nothing between me and a fifty-foot drop to the forest floor. I shuffle back into the room.

“This is a—”

“Treehouse?” Jol finishes. “Why, yes. Lovely isn’t it?”

I’m at a loss for words. I look again at the space. The tree trunk in the center should have been a dead giveaway. But the space is large and far too elaborate for one man to build. How many more people are hiding around here?

“There’s a ladder over there.” He nods to the far side of the room behind the trunk. “Did you need directions getting back to wherever it is you’re headed? It’s easy to get turned around in these parts.”

I point my knife at him, stealing over to the ladder. He just sips his tea.

Sure enough, the floor opens up to a rope ladder that goes straight down to the forest floor.

“Where are the others?” I ask.

“Hm?” He gives me a puzzled look. “There’s no one else. Just me.”

I jab the knife in his direction. “Don’t give me that. You couldn’t have built this on your own.”

Those bushy white caterpillars jump up. “Oh, I didn’t build this. Just tidied it up a bit after I found it.” He speaks around his hand like it’s some big secret. “It was a wreck before I added the plants. Gives it a nice touch, don’t you think?”

“Then who built it?”

He shrugs.

The ladder sits waiting. Eli is probably looking for me. Judging by the afternoon sun, at least a couple hours have passed, which means he caught breakfast and realized I’m nowhere in sight to eat it. I scowl at the ground. Maybe he can wait a little longer. After all, this Jol guy seems rather harmless. Weird, maybe. But harmless. And if he wanted to hurt me he could have easily done so earlier.

“Tea?” he asks again.

I frown. “No.”

That’s the other thing. How is this man drinking tea? Uncle said the plants turned toxic. It’s why I was starving before Eli came along. It’s why everyone either eats whatever they can scavenge from the old cities or they hunt like Eli.

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“My name’s Natasha.”

He nearly chokes on his tea. “Really?” He gives me a curious look. “Would that happen to be short for something? Anastasia, perhaps?”

I lower my knife a bit more. No one alive knows that except my brother, Ivan. It’s been years since I’ve heard the name on my birth certificate spoken aloud.

“...It is.”

Anastasia was the name my parents reserved for those special times when I’d come home bloody and bruised. My knuckles, that is. It didn’t happen often, but whenever some idiot kids decided to pick on Ivan, I made sure they got a taste of my fists. Or the concrete. Or a wall. Bullies never lasted long.

The old man mumbles to himself as he hobbles over to the desk and opens a book, flipping through pages until he plucks something and steps over to me. With a flip of his wrist, a spot of color suddenly appears between his thumb and forefinger. He holds it up to me.

“This is your flower.”

A dried daffodil. He probably chose it because of my hair. The soft yellow of the petals matches my blonde locks quite well.

“It represents rebirth and new beginnings. Similar to your name,” he explains.

Rebirth? New beginnings? How ironic. I would take my old life back in an instant if I could. I take the delicate flower from his hand and twirl it between my fingers, nostalgia wafting over my senses. My mom pressed flowers. It takes me back to cozy evenings in front of the fireplace flipping through books filled with these little dried treasures. A deep ache throbs inside my chest at the memory. After all these years and I still miss those days. Mom reading on the rocker as dad smokes his pipe and Ivan playing with blocks. Chirping crickets chasing in a cool night breeze that swirls with the rich, earthy undertones of the pipe’s puffs.

“I have a garden.” He smiles between bright eyes. “I never get visitors but maybe you’d like to see?”

Maybe it’s the bitterness in my heart when I think of returning to Eli. Or maybe it’s Jol’s disarmingly friendly personality, but some part of me wants to go see Jol’s garden. Probably the lonely part. I want to talk to someone again. Someone who isn’t the ever-avoidant, Eli. At least for a little while. I crave conversation, even if it’s with Jol, as odd as he is. It helps that I can actually take the old man in a fight if I need to.

Eli can wait.

“Sure.”

Jol grins like a kid on Christmas, jumping a little with excitement. I resist a smile. How long has this old guy been alone? After a week-long cold war with Eli, Jol is refreshing.

The climb down the ladder is nerve wracking, even more so with the lump on my head sending spikes of pain through my skull with every rough jostling. But when my feet reach the grassy earth, I swallow a sense of satisfaction. As Jol leads me down a little stone path through the woods I ask, “How long have you been out here by yourself?”

“Hmm…I think, forty years now.”

I stumble to a halt. I know there are loners—heck, I was one until Eli came along. But only because I never had a choice as a woman in a world like this. If I were a man, I would have joined a group long ago if for no other reason than for the safety and stability they present.

“Isn’t it hard? Surviving on your own?” Why choose that life?

Jol gives me a grin over his shoulder. “Not as hard as surviving with other people. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

I guess he has a point. Even Eli, as helpful as he is, still leaves me trapped in a tunnel of frustration and anger. Every morning, I wake up with this hardness in my heart, and no matter how much I pound on it, it only grows harder.

“So you’ve been alone this whole time?” I ask.

“Well no, not exactly. There was a group of us at the beginning.”

“What happened?”

“Things didn’t work out.” His voice clips sharply. “So we parted ways.”

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious, but the tone is clear. So I steer clear of alienating yet another halfway-decent man.

“What was your life like before all this?”

He turns to face me, grinning as he flares his fingers, flowers appearing between the digits. Another wave and they’re gone. “I was a magician.”

That explains a lot. And it fits, oddly enough. Although this hobo of a man may seem more like the type you find huddled in the corner of a subway, you could clean him up, dress him in a suit and tie, put him on a stage, and I can see it. Jol comes across as quite charismatic—if not more than a little eccentric—which suits an entertainer well.

“My wife taught high school and my little girl was going into first grade. She liked helping me with my magic tricks.”

His chipper smile softens and his tone turns quiet. I get it now. Why I feel comfortable around Jol. Unlike most, he remembers, and remembers fondly at that. There is no hint of bitterness as he speaks of his family.

“My little brother loved magic.” Warmth spreads through my middle as I let myself reminisce. “He wanted to grow up to be a magician, so I called him Vanny the Great.”

Ivan was creative and smart but it was his heart that made him so special. A heart of gold. It’s that kind of goodness that people notice, even the bad ones. Bullies always regretted picking on my brother, I made sure of it. As an older sister that was my job, to protect him.

“He would put on these shows for me and my uncle. The tricks weren’t good, but they didn’t have to be because he was fantastic.” I smile at the memory. “He had this thing he liked to do—”

“We’re almost there!” Jol interrupts and flashes me a smile. “You’ll love it. It has your flower.”

I hear the roar of the waterfall before I see it. The water plummets at least twenty feet from the boulders above into a deep pool, creating a cool mist. All around, vines creep up the rocks and tree trunks and small white flowers give off a sweet scent.

Jol walks right around the base of the waterfall and waves me over to a wall of thick vines. He pushes them aside, revealing an enormous cavern. Light filters in from above, revealing dozens of raised flowerbeds, an array of colorful plants overflowing from each. On the far side, a crystal pool shines, and the ceiling rises at least two stories upward.

I pluck a beautiful deep purple flower, lifting it to my nose. Lilac. Nostalgia hits me from all sides. Mom loved this scent. On Saturday mornings in the summer, she would open the house and bake apple pie. The house smelled of lilacs, apples, and cinnamon.

From here the waterfall outside is muted and a soft melody reaches my ears.

Music?

I follow the sound to a little rock tunnel in the back of the garden. Beethoven’s 5th. I recognize it from the last homework assignment my music teacher gave before the world ended. I wrote that entire five-page essay, single-spaced, and never even got to turn it in.

“Do you like it?” Jol asks from behind. He holds out a small bouquet of flowers.

I take them but peer into the tunnel. “Is that music?”

He nods.

“But how? It sounds like a recording. Don’t you need electricity for that? And speakers.”

“Oh yes, there is all that too.” His eyes brighten, “I have more songs. Do you want to see?”

Yes. But…

I glance behind. This is becoming much more than an afternoon stroll in the woods. Eli is probably searching for me now. Worried. Or maybe not. Maybe he’s happy to be free of me. Jol waits expectantly for my answer and I rotate the small bouquet of color in my hand. The music rises and falls before reaching a crescendo, baiting me.

“Just a quick look,” I say.

Jol beams and leads the way. The narrow walls, carved from the rock, twist and wind until we reach a thick metal door.

A bunker.

Jol found a bunker. First a treehouse, now a bunker. What else does the old magician have hiding up his sleeve? He disappears inside without a second thought but I pause outside the entrance. I can hear the music clearly now. Every instrument in beautiful harmony as the symphony plays out.

Just a quick look.

I step inside. The bunker is cozy, but in classic Jol fashion plants cover absolutely everything. I recognize a few with their striped heart-shaped leaves as houseplants. Garden supplies and equipment clutter the space to my left: shovels, a rake, wooden planter boxes, and even a sledgehammer. The living room area holds a rounded sectional sofa that opens into the kitchen and a small dining room table tucked away off to the side. A narrow hallway behind catches my eye.

“Jol?”

The music grows louder down the hall, which opens into a large room containing a small desk and reading chair along one side. The wall across from me holds three small, clear spaces, maybe six by four feet, like a small walk-in closet. Two are closed off, thick vines having completely taken over, but the middle space is open. Music comes from within, and intrigued, I step inside.