I was back in Beaver, in the woods behind the dog enclosure, looking at the treehouse I had built more than fifty years ago. Some piece of it was still there. That alone felt miraculous.

Then the tree began to sway.

At first I thought it was me—my balance, my footing—but the wind was rising, and the movement became undeniable. The thrill of finding the treehouse shifted into something uneasy, almost like the edge of a bad dream.

I realized I was standing on a limb near the roof of a house.

I don’t remember there ever being a house there, yet in the dream it was unmistakable: a beautiful stucco house with a slate roof, calm and solid, close enough to touch. I stood there for a moment, suspended, aware that staying on the branch meant trusting the wind.

Or I could step onto the roof.

I didn’t hesitate. I stepped off the limb and onto the roof, and the danger dissolved.

Later—somewhere near the patio—I met the woman who lived there. She was concerned, and I explained that I had built a treehouse in that tree fifty-five years ago, that I had come back only to see if it was still standing. I told her how happy I’d been to find it, and how the wind had changed everything.

I said the roof had simply appeared when I needed it.

I thanked her for the lifeline. For letting me pass through.

Then I left.

The dream felt brief—short, even, by the numbers—but when I woke, it left behind a calm certainty. Not relief exactly. Something quieter.

As if I had been shown that there was solid ground nearby all along.

And that, somehow, everything would be all right.