Under_The_Whispering_Door_by_TJ_Klune

“Younger,” Wallace repeated. “You’re already young.” Then, unsure if he
was insulting a sort of deity who was apparently in charge of … something,
he quickly added, “At least you look like you are. I mean, I don’t know how
this works, and—”
“Thank you,” Hugo said, lips quirking as if he found Wallace’s discomfort
amusing.
“Oh boy,” Nelson grumbled, picking up his teacup and slurping along the
edges. “He’s an old man now. Maybe not as old as me, but he’s getting
there.”
“I’m thirty,” Hugo said dryly. He gestured toward the cup on the table in
front of Wallace. “Drink up. It’s best when it’s hot.”
Wallace eyed the tea. There were bits of something floating at the top. He
wasn’t sure he wanted to drink it, but Hugo was watching him closely. It
didn’t seem to be hurting Mei or Nelson, so Wallace gingerly picked up the
cup, bringing it close to his face. The scent of peppermint was strong, and
Wallace’s eyes fluttered shut of their own accord. He could hear Apollo
yawning in the way dogs do, and the bones of the house as it settled, but the
floor and walls fell away, the roof rocketing up toward the sky, and he was,
he was, he was—
He opened his eyes.
He was home.
Not his current home, the high-rise apartment with the imported furniture
and the red accent wall he thought about painting over and the picture
windows that opened up to a city of metal and glass.
No, it was his childhood home, the one with the stairs that creaked and the
water heater that never had enough hot water. He stood in the doorway to the
kitchen, Bing Crosby singing on the old radio, telling everyone who could
hear to have yourself a merry little Christmas.
“Until then,” his mother sang as she spun through the kitchen, “we’ll have
to muddle through somehow.”
It was snowing outside, and garlands stretched along the top of the
cabinets and on the windowsills. His mother laughed to herself as the oven
dinged. She grabbed an oven mitt with a snowman printed on it from the
counter. She opened the oven door, the hinges squealing, and pulled out a
sheet of homemade candy canes. Her holiday specialty, a recipe she’d