Chapter 17: Heartwood

The tree was so gigantic it couldn’t possibly be real. It rose just off the central hub like a skyscraper. Try as she might, Allison couldn’t see the crown of the massive shagbark hickory, even with her head tilted all the way back. Any witness tree that she knew of on the battlefield could easily fit at least five times inside.

The bark was just as extraordinary—great, thick, shaggy plates of gray-brown wood that peeled away from the trunk in long strips, curling outward like pages left open in the wind. The strips were ancient and weathered, and between them the phloem glowed faintly with Dreamspace’s familiar atmospheric heartbeat.

The roots were massive at the base. They stretched in gnarled ridges across the landscape, diving into the earth and resurfacing yards away to form natural archways and bridges. They ran deep beneath the soil; Allison felt power flow from the ground into her, a perpetual vibration through her feet and up to her chest. Comforting. Sturdy. These roots seemed to be reaching for something foundational beneath all the living things she could see, the source of whatever magic held this place together.

The crown formed a dense canopy, filtering fractured light into dappled warmth. Heavy clusters of fist-sized hickory nuts hung from the branches, their husks perfuming the air with their pungent, oily fragrance. Allison picked one up to sniff, then drew back and scrunched her face, surprised by the shell’s smell.

An ornately carved door was embedded in the trunk, seemingly of the same hickory. Its surface was covered in intricate, flowing designs: swirls that might be wind, water, or firefly trails; woodland creatures’ faces—an owl, a fox, a pigeon. Among them was Thimble's face, unmistakably welcoming and kind. Her carved eyes were as bright as her real ones. The depiction felt almost alive.

The door opened slowly with a low groan, as if the tree were stretching after a long sleep. Warmth poured out, carrying the scents of buttery hickory nuts, old books, lemon cleaner, beeswax, and the wood's deep, resinous warmth.

Allison stood motionless at the threshold, her mouth agape. Everything about Dreamspace was surreal; the tree was no different. In all her daydreams, she had never seen anything like this. She was awestruck.

“Wow, what is this place?” she whispered.

“Welcome to the Heartwood,” Sol said, their voice warm in the quiet. Allison realized Sol was watching her, keen to catch her reaction as she took in the scene.

They stepped inside as the front door closed behind them, creaking at a higher pitch than before, almost as if in excitement. It seemed eager to welcome a new guest and hold her close.

Inside, it was rustic but tidy, cozy, and inviting. Candles, lanterns, and the ambient glow of drifting fireflies provided the light. The warm amber light made everything look painterly and dreamlike.

The hallway off the foyer was narrow but not cramped, its smooth, curved walls following the tree’s natural shape. To the immediate left was the kitchen, which Thimble clearly oversaw. Allison stopped in the doorway, momentarily derailed from saving the world by the sheer, devastating coziness. Bright windows shone on polished dark stone countertops. Bundles of herbs and jars of spices lined the shelves, labeled in Thimble’s neat handwriting.

Sketchy lines and doodles of stars, flowers, and butterflies ran along the walls, each surrounded by a blurry glow. Allison watched in amazement as a rectangle with a bread pudding recipe in Thimble's handwriting appeared on the wall opposite her, the same soft glow emanating from its lines. It spun slowly, then dashed away like a shy child running behind their parent’s leg, before fading from view. The other doodles continued their waltz along the walls, the glow trailing behind them.

Allison’s eyes widened as she watched, and a gleeful smile spread across her face as she patted the kitchen doorframe. “You’re showing off, but I like it,” she said to the tree, as if it could hear her.

The appliances matched: a 1940s stove, a rounded fridge with a chrome handle, and a toaster that looked like it would make a satisfying clunk when the toast popped up—practical, sturdy, simple, and beautiful, just as Thimble liked. Allison liked it too. She was already thinking about how she could make her kitchen at home more like this.

On the right side of the room, by the stove, sat a rustic reddish-brown clay tea set and an avocado-green kettle, round and squat, with a stay-cool handle. It had been worn for decades but still worked reliably. Allison could understand the joy of a familiar kettle waiting patiently on the stove, ready to boil until it sang.

Above the stove, a collection of recipe books and more luminous script glowed. They seemed to suggest tea cakes. Allison squinted at them until they quickly faded from her curious gaze before she could read them fully.

Must have been a secret family recipe for Thimble’s eyes only, Allison thought, and smiled.

The tree held more than leaves and nuts; it held mysteries and an extensive archive, including recipes.

“This is where you live?” Allison said softly, looking at Thimble.

“This is home. Mine, Sol’s, and Felipe’s,” Thimble said. 

Home. It felt like the belonging and love Allison had longed for as an adult.

They moved past the kitchen and down the hall to the right. Through a rustic archway, Allison saw a stone fireplace, leather chairs, a log-framed sofa with plaid blankets, and a brass-framed coffee table with a glass top, all flickering in the firelight. It looked like a room made for hours of cozy reading and tea, where you could forget the rest of the world. She wanted to linger. Desperately. But even as Allison’s longing anchored her steps, she noticed Sol moving forward, their urgency unmistakable: not yet. Not now.

Further down, a left turn led to bedrooms and bathrooms—private spaces. To protect her sense of propriety, Allison didn’t enter. At the hallway’s end stood a vast library beneath an archway carved with an intricate woodland design that matched the door—clearly a set. 

The shelves were lined with what looked like every book imaginable, seeming never-ending and leading into a haze of dust motes and sunlight.

Allison stepped through the archway; her breath caught. It was like every fantasy she had ever had of an eternal library, one that seemed to stretch endlessly, as if physics and space had no bearing on its vast knowledge. This was unlike anything she’d ever seen. It was a cathedral, an altar to literature.

“Wow! This is… inconceivable,” exclaimed Allison, her eyes wide. “I never thought I’d see my dream library in person, ever. I think I could die happy now.”

Allison looked back at Thimble, who stood at the library’s threshold, an unspoken question hanging in the air: did I make this and not know it?

Thimble's gentle smile and single nod, eyes softly closed, were her only answer, keeping her distance so Allison could explore at her own pace without feeling hovered over.

The room stretched upward and outward, its walls lined with dark wood shelves rising from floor to ceiling, packed with books, tomes, and manuscripts of every size and age. Modern paperbacks sat beside leather-bound volumes older than nations. Scrolls tied with faded ribbons leaned against handwritten journals. Countless aisles of freestanding shelves stretched farther than any Earthside tree could hold. Lanterns lit themselves with a soft whoosh as they were guided deeper into the library. Allison realized the shelves were beautifully organized. Everything was lined up and stacked with the precision that made her little autistic heart leap with joy.

The smell was extraordinary: warm leather and beeswax, plus the earthy, sweet scent of vanillin from thousands upon thousands of old pages, their lignin slowly decaying over centuries. Beneath the vellichor, probably her favorite scent, was the warm resin of the hickory tree itself, the underlying base note in the symphony of scents throughout her Heartwood tour.

At the very back stood a heavy, dark wooden desk, carved with flowing, organic designs—vines, leaves, and hints of woodland animal faces in the grain. The desk demanded reverence for the many secrets it held in its wood, as if it had witnessed centuries of momentous creations—and perhaps it had. 

An ornate book cradle rested on the desk. Above it, a dome—glossy, rippled, and iridescent—shimmered, made of the same stuff as the crystalline canopy overhead. Beneath it, a book waited—not just any book, but something immensely special. From ten feet away, Allison felt its unmistakable pull. The tome was enormous—thick and leather-bound, its cover plain except for a single glowing embossed quill, pulsing gold like a heartbeat.

Sol came forward, lifted the tome carefully, and set it aside. They drew the cradle closer to the desk’s edge and stepped back.

“Go ahead, touch it. You won’t hurt it,” they said. “It’s yours. It belongs to you, just as it has for every Sparkkeeper before you.”

Allison gasped softly as she approached the desk. Her footsteps seemed to echo off every wooden surface in the library’s hush. She felt all their eyes on her, fireflies included. She touched the cradle. A tingle ran through her fingers—pins and needles—as the Spark Quill in her other hand vibrated. They seemed to recognize each other, as if the book were pulling the Quill or the Quill were pulling the book.

She brushed dust from the cover. The motes glinted like glitter in the lantern light before drifting down, and the brass pen in her hand blazed, brighter at her touch, as if dust had dulled it and now, freed, it shone in full glory. Fireflies began a slow orbit around Allison and the desk; their light brightened until the library glowed gold.

“What is this?” she whispered.

The book opened on its own, pages turning slowly with the shush of old paper. They passed centuries of content—unfamiliar scripts, illustrations of early Dreamspace, diagrams, and margin notes. Then the pages stopped. The book opened to a spread that, at first glance, was a mess—tattered, blotched, scribbled, stained. Allison leaned closer, frowning.

As she watched, stains faded, blotches dissolved, scribbles rearranged. In their place, as if an invisible hand was writing in real time, a letter appeared. The handwriting was not her father’s, but an antiquated script with long, looping tails and a gentle rightward slant that suggested a left-handed writer. The ink was dark brown, almost sepia, and the pages smelled of pipe tobacco and earth.

Her grandfather’s hand.

December 21, 1979

Beloved Granddaughter,

You have not been born yet, but you will be soon. I write to you across a distance not measured in miles but in time—in years I pray I am given, in moments I can only imagine and hope for.

There is something about you already. I cannot explain it well here—the words are lost to me, as so many things are at my age, when I need to say them. But I feel it in the way I feel the turn of the seasons or the pull of a story not yet written. You will have a most precious gift. One that runs in our family like water in a deep well—hidden, but always there, always rising.

You are a Sparkkeeper. Like me. Like your dad. Like others before our time. You won’t know what that means for some time. A little forest creature close to my heart once told me, The spark of Dreamspace often stays quiet. But I know in my bones that you will be vital for its future. Your gift will be storytelling—building worlds from nothing but words and wanting, seeing what isn’t yet real and making it so—it will not feel like a gift at first.

Your life may be difficult, darling girl, as it often is for Sparkkeepers. Some won’t understand you, can’t see what you see, and will mistake your depth for strangeness and your sensitivity for weakness. Don’t let them convince you they’re right. They aren’t. They never were.

Your words hold immense power. They can shape entire worlds, even when you seem mighty small.

Your pen is your sword. Wield it wisely. And when the time comes—and it will—remember you will never be alone, especially when you think you are. Dreamspace remembers. I remember. And your father, who carries the spark as surely as I do, will make certain you are ready.

With unwavering love, Grandpa

P.S. One last thing, my love. Be careful what you feed the fireflies.

Allison read the letter over a few more times. Each time, a different line broke her open in a different place—“your sensitivity for weakness,” "you were never alone.” It felt like being seen for the first time. It was half unnerving, half stabilizing.

“Grandpa,” she whispered, tears threatening to escape her ducts.

Sol bent beside her, their hand resting on the desk next to hers. “This is your legacy, Allison. Dreamspace has been yours since before you were born. Your grandfather knew. Your father knew. And now you know.”

As suddenly as it appeared, the letter faded. The tea stains returned, the blotches reassembled, and the pages turned again, past more centuries of content, past maps, diagrams, and margin notes, until they settled on a new spread. Two blank pages—clean and waiting. They glowed faintly with an invitation that needed no words.

Through the library’s tall windows, Allison could see the sky—the crystalline dome, fractured and bleeding light, trembling in stasis. The light filtering through was bruised, but still patient. Waiting, like the pages.

Sol’s voice was gentle. “Dreamspace remembers you, Allison. Even when you don’t remember yourself.”

Thimble pressed the Spark Quill more firmly into Allison’s hand. “I can see it in your eyes. You can feel it, can’t you? The sparks, the urge to create, to write.”

Allison looked down at the ancient book. Her grandfather’s words were there, and her father’s. Beyond them, the blank pages waited.

“Yes. I feel like I should. I don’t know what,” she said.

She almost apologized for not knowing. Instead, she let the admission stand.

Felipe appeared beside her. She hadn’t seen him climb onto the desk, but there he was, a rainbow shimmering across his carapace. He rested one warm paw on the hand holding the Quill and met her eyes.

“Breathe with me,” he said softly. “In... Out... That’s it. Trust me. Close your eyes. Keep breathing. Let the words come on their own.”

She closed her eyes. In through her nose, out through her mouth. Slowly, her breathing settled into the Quill’s hum, the heartclock’s tentative beat, the pulse of the lantern mosaic far below. The fear stayed. But with each breath, she found a little room around it.

A cool breeze swept through the library, carrying the scent of wood and old paper. Loose pages rustled. Fireflies drifted in the current, and the lantern flames bent and rose.

Allison opened her eyes. Her hand trembled. The Quill tugged toward the page, so eager that she tightened her grip. For a moment, she couldn’t remember how to begin. Not a story. Not even a word. She held the nib above the paper, as if trying to hold back a bolting horse.

Felipe’s paw settled against her wrist.

In. Out.

He breathed with her until her grip eased.

The Quill warmed beneath her fingers. She lowered it, and the nib caught on the paper’s tooth. She pressed down. The first word broke the silence. Shimmering purple ink pooled beneath the nib, then followed it across the page.

Somewhere beyond the library, a massive shard of the shattered dome slipped free of its stasis. At last, it fell, breaking with a distant, bell-like crash. Dreamspace exhaled.

Sol, Thimble, and Felipe startled at the sound.

Allison kept writing. The Quill’s hum filled her awareness. Its warmth deepened, and her hand moved more freely, the nib catching and releasing as it crossed the page. She no longer paused to judge each word before allowing it to exist.

The next came, and then the next.

Somewhere deep within her, something that had waited in the dark for decades surfaced.

This time, she let it speak.