The sapling is a curious thing, with broad silvery leaves the likes you had never seen. An internet search reveals nothing remotely similar. You shrug, put it under a grow light, and water it sparingly.

It burgeons, stretching upward not by the day but by the hour. Within weeks, its roots have cracked three increasingly larger pots, and its canopy has almost reached the ceiling. With some trepidation, you replant it in your backyard and meticulously cover its roots with mulch. Winters are tough around here, and you aren't sure the strange tree can survive.

It does, and even in the deepest winter it never loses its silvery leaves. And when snow melts and the ground thaws, it grows a single pale fruit, like a cross between an apple and a peach. The strangest thing is that you had never even seen the tree blossom.

You watch the fruit swell and darken into a rich golden color until one morning, when you come to check up on it, it falls from the branches. You put it on the kitchen counter, where it stays for weeks, never rotting, filling the house with a sweet scent.

Eventually you give in to your curiosity and have a taste. Just a nibble, in case it's poisonous. Its flesh is juicy and tangy and sweet, the most delicious thing you ever tasted, and before you know it, you devour it all. You wait anxiously, but nothing bad happens. If anything, you feel better than before—light on your feet and full of energy.

The tree continues to grow, and you fear what the neighbors will say, but when you wake up one day, instead of the boring suburban landscape you find your backyard connected to a grassy plain with a forest in the distance. When you walk around to the neighbor's house, you find it still there, with its owner oblivious. You wonder if you're going insane.

Then the first visitors come. Their clothes are linen, and their ears are pointy. "Keeper," they murmur, and bow respectfully. "We come to pay respect on behalf of the Autumn Queen."

You gape and sputter in confusion. The visitors don't seem offended. They sit in silence in the tree's shade for many hours, then lay baskets of fruit and honey and bread at your doorstep and leave. They are but first of the many. You become used to them and even exchange small talk. The Southern Tribes are gathering to select a new warchief, apparently, and undead have been spotted in the Barrows. Huh.

The tree's roots reach the house and begin twining around it with surprising gentleness. As months turn into years, the house becomes entirely incorporated within the roots. The darnedest thing is that water still flows from the faucets, tasting strangely sweet, and the shower has hot water. Electricity's gone, but among the tribute you find glass globes that light up when touched, and you trade another fruit for a group of stocky bearded crafstmen to build you a fireplace.

Years have passed since you picked up the sapling, but when you peer into the mirror, you find your face unchanged by age. The grassland is no longer the only place the tree connects to; there's a range of tall mountains, and a beach before a vast ocean, all open for you to enjoy the bounties of. And as the tree's silvery canopy rises toward the skies, you wonder what other marvelous worlds it will open.