Lily Chen had been living with her grandmother for three weeks when she found the door. It was not hidden exactly, but it occupied a corner of the attic that seemed to resist attention, the kind of space your eyes slid over without registering, the way you might overlook a step in a familiar staircase. She discovered it while searching for a box of old photographs that her grandmother had asked her to bring down. The attic was cluttered with decades of accumulated possessions: broken furniture, stacks of water-stained books, and suitcases covered in stickers from countries that no longer existed under their original names. The door was behind the suitcases, set into the wall at an angle that should have opened onto the exterior of the house. It was painted blue, a blue so vivid it almost seemed to glow in the dusty attic light. The handle was warm to the touch, which was strange because the attic was cold enough that Lily could see her breath. She tried the handle and felt it turn with a smooth click. Behind the door was not the outside of the house. Behind the door was a meadow. Warm air rushed past her, carrying the scent of wildflowers and something else, something sweet and unfamiliar that made her think of birthday candles and fresh rain simultaneously. The grass was an impossible green, the sky was a shade of blue that did not exist in her world, and two suns hung above the horizon, one gold and one silver. Lily stood in the doorway with one foot on the dusty attic floor and the other hovering above the meadow grass. Everything she knew about common sense told her to close the door and walk away. But Lily was twelve years old, she had just moved to a new town where she knew nobody, and her parents were on the other side of the world. Common sense did not stand a chance. She stepped through.