Hill Juniper | Serena

The tree swung open.

"Juniper. The tree's name, and mine. I'm the keeper of the lost time. Your grandmother used to visit. She promised to send someone when she couldn't come back."

Not a door—a throat. She stepped into a tunnel lined with roots like veins, and emerged into a clearing where the sky was the color of rusted gold. There stood the village: clapboard houses, a church with a broken bell, and in the center, a second juniper, this one enormous, its branches strung with glass bottles that caught the non-light and turned it into a soft green hum. serena hill juniper

The mason jar in Serena's hand suddenly felt heavy. She understood: she hadn't come to capture anything. She'd come to offer.

Serena thought of the first time her grandmother taught her to make juniper berry jam, the kitchen sticky with sugar and laughter. She saw it so clearly: the flour on her grandmother's cheek, the way she said "just a pinch more" even when it was already perfect. The tree swung open

"You were here. That's the part the map never shows—someone always remembers the rememberer."

Serena's throat tightened. "She forgot. She forgot everything." I'm the keeper of the lost time

Juniper handed her a single berry. "Plant this by your door. When it grows, the forgetting will slow. And Serena?"