I knelt. The hole was shallow—maybe three inches deep—but it contained that other sky entirely. A wind stirred the ferns, but the sky in the hole didn't ripple. It stared back at me, patient as a locked door.
I blinked. The reflection held.
I stared at the left pole first. It was smooth, cool-looking, with a single hairline scratch running up its side like a vein. The right pole was identical, except for a faint smear of rust near its base. I looked at the hole. Nothing. Dirt, maybe roots. The air smelled of wet moss and my own boredom.
Then I shifted my weight, and the light changed. A cloud moved. The sun slid through the trees at a different angle, and suddenly the two poles cast shadows that touched across the hole. The shadows didn't just meet—they interlocked , like fingers lacing. And the hole, which had been empty, now held a reflection of the sky. Not the sky above, but a different sky: bruised purple, with a moon I didn't recognize.
I haven't told my girlfriend. She already knows.
It had. It was the bruised purple one.
I walked back to my car. The gravel path seemed longer than before. The forest seemed quieter. And for the rest of the day, I kept glancing at my reflection in windows, checking to see if the sky behind my eyes had changed.
The brochure didn't mention any of that.
