Monday Microburst: Where the Door Grew
Magical. Mystical. Meaningful. Monday Microburst
Every week, I’ll share a tiny tale from Plymbury—the coastal New England town where all my stories live. These moments are short enough to read over morning coffee or tea, yet just long enough to leave a trace of magic in your day. I hope they become a small ritual you look forward to each Monday.
Design by Kendra Vaughan
Where the Door Grew
When she first met Rusty, his disbelief had seemed harmless, almost charming. He would smile when she spoke of sea-glass stars or the miracles whispered in town when a wish was granted in the Apothecary. He called it “sweet nonsense,” but she didn’t mind. She believed love was all that mattered.
In those early days, she even imagined the moment when he might see it for himself—the shimmer on the tide at dawn, the way pines leaned closer when wishes were whispered, the warmth that hummed through the air when the moon was high. She pictured his eyes widening in wonder, his voice soft with admission: "I can’t believe it. You were right all along."
But years slipped by, and that moment never came. He chuckled at the women who swore the ocean spoke to them, dismissed the stars on the Apothecary wall as pretty sea glass, and kissed her forehead as though indulging a child’s story. One night, as the moonlight turned the yard to silver, she realized that he had never truly seen her. And he never would.
That night, she wandered outside, past the sagging garden gate and into the woods, a single sea-glass star warm in her palm.
At the base of the tallest birch, she pressed it into the soil. By dawn, a door had grown there—arched in vines, glimmering with dew.
She didn’t hesitate, not even for a second. Instead, she opened it and stepped through.
Want More?
If this moment from Plymbury stirred something in you, there’s more where it came from. Join my newsletter for exclusive stories, behind-the-scenes glimpses, and quiet magic you won’t find anywhere else.
