It wasn’t just someone. It was many someones—the women and men and children of Branch Hill. They had letters clutched in their hands. They had wide eyes. And they had questions for Faye and Wunder.
“The letter told us to come here,” someone said.
“What’s this about?”
“Who sent these?”
“Wunder! Wunder!”
At the bottom of the hill was the Minister of Consolation. He wore his white robe, and in the new sunlight, it looked bright white, as white as a DoorWay Tree flower.
“Wunder,” he cried, “this tree! Where did this tree come from? Did you do this?”
The questions stopped. Everyone looked at Wunder, silent, waiting.
And again, Wunder knew exactly what to say.
“No,” he said. “It wasn’t me. It was a miracle.”
The word rippled through the crowd. Miracle … miracle … miracle. Here was the miracle that they had been told to come experience.
And now there were more questions.
“What do you mean miracle?”
“Why is it in a graveyard?”
“What does it mean?”
Wunder glanced across the cemetery to the DoorWay House. He wondered where the witch was. This was her moment. Everyone was here because of her. The awed peacefulness he had felt when he climbed out of the tree was fading in the face of his neighbors’ bewilderment. He hadn’t expected to do this on his own.
But he wasn’t on his own.
“Everyone! Listen!” Faye stood in front of the tree, in front of the crowd. Her bangs were back, and her wind-blown cloak made her look, Wunder thought, like a black bird about to soar. “We’re here to see the miracle of the DoorWay Tree. We’re here to be with one another. We’re here to be with the dead. Et cetera!”
Wunder nodded, Faye’s presence and words making him braver. “All of us here,” he said, “have experienced miracles in our lives, miracles that we sometimes forget. This tree is here to remind us. And it’s here to show us the miracles of memory and love. It’s here to connect us to one another and to the ones we’ve lost.”
“How?” cried the minister.
“Come and take a flower,” Faye told him. “You’ll feel it.”
He didn’t move. No one did. Wunder thought of the witch’s words as he picked one of the blossoms: It is easy to reach for one another in the brightness. There was a miracle right in front of them, so bright and clear and real. And there were friends and neighbors and loved ones standing right next to them, each their own point of light. But Wunder knew how sadness and loneliness could block out even the brightest light.
Then Mariah Lazar stepped forward. She was holding Jayla on her hip, as big as she was, gripping her tightly with one hand. Her other hand, she held out, empty.
Wunder filled it with the flower.
“This is for Avery,” he said.
“Thank you, Wunder,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”
Then she and her husband and her children headed toward the grave topped with the white in-flight bird. They went together to the grave of the one they had loved, the one they still loved, the one they had lost, the one who was waiting to be found. They went to be with her for a while.
And then everyone came forward.
All that morning, they came, the people of Branch Hill, more and more and more of them. Eugenia Simone. Margot Arvid. Mateo Ramos and his wife. Susan Holt and her stepdaughters. Mason Nash with his uncle. Charlotte Atkins with her brother and sisters and parents and dog. All the people that Wunder and Faye had connected to, all the people that the witch had called to the hill.
At first, the newcomers would stand and gaze up at the tree, awed by its size and its beauty. Then Wunder and Faye would tell them about the DoorWay Tree and give them a flower, and they would feel it—the miracle feeling, their own heart-bird—as they realized they weren’t alone, as they realized their loved ones, alive and dead, were with them.
Some who came left and returned with urns or with heirlooms or with framed pictures. Their loved ones were not buried at the Branch Hill cemetery, but somehow they could feel them there just the same.
And some left and returned with elements of their own celebrations and rituals and rites, with marigolds, with lilies, with bowls of fruit and bowls of rice, with incense and candles, with brooms for sweeping and guitars for strumming and seeds for planting. There were many, many ways to think about death. There were many, many ways to connect with the dead.
Davy came, with Mrs. Baum. When he saw the tree, he couldn’t speak for a long time.
“That’s our branch?” he finally asked.
“That’s our branch,” Wunder said, smiling at his friend. “We did it.”
Davy smiled back at him, smiled so big and wide, bigger and wider than Wunder had ever seen. Then he went to the tree himself and plucked two flowers.
“My great-grandparents are buried here,” he told Wunder. “I never knew that. My mom told me this morning. These are for them.” He shrugged. “And for me too, I guess.”
The witch had given Faye a letter for her mother after all. Faye was sure she wouldn’t come to the cemetery, but Mrs. Lee appeared while it was still early morning, and so did Grace. Faye met them with three flowers in her hands. They each took one, and then they went to Faye’s grandfather’s grave. Wunder watched from the top of the hill as they stood together with their arms around one another.
He was happy for Faye. He was happy for Davy. He was happy for Branch Hill. He was happy for himself.
But he was still waiting.
He was waiting for his mother. He was waiting for his father.
And they didn’t come.
Another hour passed, and Faye returned to the top of the hill. There were dozens of people there now. Ladders leaned against the DoorWay Tree. Flowers fell.
“Can you believe this?” Wunder smiled at Faye. Then he caught himself. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I know you don’t like my excessive smiling.”
Faye shrugged. “It’s not so bad,” she said. “I think I’ve decided that the world needs people like you, Wunder. Zippy people. People who smile and mean it.”
“The world needs people like us, Faye,” Wunder told her. “The world needs people who believe in miracles.”
When he hugged her, she didn’t even protest. She hugged him back, there on Branch Hill, under the DoorWay Tree, where they had become friends.