“But there’s someone I have to see first,” Wunder had said. “Alone.”

His father had started to shake his head, but his mother had said, “Go ahead. We’ll meet you there.”

At the DoorWay House, Wunder knocked on the door. He knocked for a long time. No one answered. No bird cawed. Finally, he let himself inside.

In the long hallway, every door was open. Wunder walked past one after another and saw that they were all the same—small, empty, dust-coated rooms. Nothing more.

The parlor was unchanged, with its piano and empty bookshelves, and so was the dining room, its chandelier still swinging in that unfelt draft.

In the kitchen, the only difference was that the newspapers were gone. The table was laid bare for the first time. It was spiraled after all.

And sitting atop the spirals was The Miraculous.

Wunder sat on his usual rusty stool. The witch, it seemed, was gone. She had said she didn’t have much time, but he hadn’t really thought about that. He hadn’t thought past the miracle.

At first, he felt angry. He had believed her, had trusted her at last. And she had left him.

Then he felt like crying because he didn’t want her to be gone too. He had so much more to ask her, so many more questions.

He stared down at the table, tears filling his eyes, and that was when he saw it. On top of The Miraculous was a pen. It was an old-fashioned black fountain pen, and Wunder could picture the wrinkled hands that had held it and the sprawling script that had flowed from its tip.

He picked it up, and he opened The Miraculous to the first blank page, right after Entry #1306.

Entry #1307, he wrote in black, bold letters.

Wunder wrote for a long time, filling page after page. He wrote about the funeral and the Minister of Consolation. He wrote about Faye and the bird. He wrote about the DoorWay House and the letters, about the DoorWay Tree and the flowers. He wrote about Milagros.

Who had she been? An old woman? A witch? His sister? Why had she come to Branch Hill? Why had she sent those letters? And where did she go?

The more Wunder wrote, the more he realized that he might never know. But he also realized that he would never stop wondering. He would never stop asking questions. Maybe there are other branches to climb up, other roots to follow down, the witch had told him. There was so much more to find.

And whoever the witch had been, she had connected the dot of his soul—connected it to friends and to family and to all the love and beauty and mystery that surrounded him. She had shown him that he was not alone. She had shown him that there were miracles.

It was enough.

With great love, he signed the entry, Wunder.

Then he tore the pages out.

He left them on the table, with a flower on top.