The City Beneath the Greenwood

By custom, no one in the root-city owns a door. Each morning, families leave their keys in the same clay bowl and trust the tree to remember which hollow belongs to whom. At noon, its leaves turn their undersides to the sun, and every courtyard fills with green light. Children trade dates beneath the oldest roots while merchants call from the stairways. Somewhere high in the branches, a bird begins tomorrow’s song a little too early.