Elara Strongheart had decided to court a man she had never seen. The whole village called him a fool for his grief. Years ago he swore he would never love again, then vanished behind his walls. Elara stood on her farmhouse porch and knotted her scarf tight. She was strong enough to split oak all morning and kind enough to feed every stray in the valley. But she could not court a lord whose door she couldn't find. No map marked his estate. No neighbor could point the way. Elara had asked at the market for a week and earned only shrugs and warnings. "You're gnawing on it again," said a voice at her elbow. The lily in the porch pot leaned toward her, petals curled like a grinning mouth. Elara had long stopped being startled that the flower talked. "Ask the old postman. He carried letters to every hidden door in Kauri." Elara straightened. She had forgotten Harold Pemberton. He'd delivered mail thirty years before his knees quit. If any road existed, his hands had walked it. She found the retired postmaster splitting kindling behind his cottage. He was small and bent, but the axe still fell clean. When she named the reclusive lord, his hands went still. "That door doesn't want finding," Harold said. He wiped his brow and studied her. "Why would a farm girl chase a man who sends every visitor away?" "Because someone should," Elara said. "He's been alone long enough." Harold snorted, but something in her plain answer moved him. He set the axe down. "The path leaves the north road at a split birch. It's grown over now. No one's asked me in fifteen years." He pulled a stub of pencil from his vest and sketched the turns on a scrap of paper. "Follow the stream till you smell woodsmoke. Then you'll know you're close." Elara took the map like it was made of glass. "Thank you." "Don't thank me yet," Harold said. "His land runs deep in the old forest. Folk lose the trail. Some don't come back the same day." Elara walked home fast, the map warm in her fist. Her winged spaniel bounded from the barn to meet her, ears flapping, small wings lifting him over the fence. He circled her legs and barked at the paper as if he smelled the journey on it. "We're going, boy," she told him. She could find the lord now. The impossible door had an address. But that night the spaniel stood at the window and growled at the dark treeline. Elara looked at the map again and saw how far the stream ran into the forest Harold feared. Finding the way had been the easy part. Now she had to walk it, alone, into woods that swallowed travelers whole.