Fai was digging in the garden behind her grandmother’s house when the ground gave way.
One moment her spade hit soft soil, the next it punched through into empty air — and Fai tumbled down after it, sliding through a tunnel of packed earth and tree roots until she landed on something soft.
She sat up and blinked.
She was in a cavern the size of her school’s courtyard. The ceiling glowed with thousands of tiny green lights — glowworms, she realized, clustered in patterns like constellations. The floor was soft moss, and between the roots of trees above, tiny roads wound between tiny houses built from acorn caps, seed pods, and smooth river stones.
And standing in front of her, reaching only to her knee, were the Mushroom People.
They were round and soft-looking, their skin pale as birch bark and spotted like mushroom caps. They had large dark eyes and small mouths, and they spoke in voices like the sound of rain on leaves.
“A surface child!” one of them exclaimed. “We haven’t had a visitor in forty-three years!”
“I’m sorry,” Fai said, looking at the spade that had fallen beside her. “I didn’t mean to break through.”
“No matter, no matter,” an elder said, walking forward with a cane made from a twig. “You’re here now. Would you like a tour?”
Fai spent the afternoon walking carefully — very carefully — through the underground city.
The Mushroom People showed her their bakery, where tiny loaves of mushroom bread baked in ovens made from clay pots. They showed her their library, where books no bigger than her thumbnail held stories written in ink made from berry juice. They showed her their water system — a network of hollow stems that carried rainwater down from the surface.
“How long have you lived here?” Fai asked.
“Since before your grandmother’s grandmother was born,” the elder said. “We come up sometimes, at night, when the moon is full. We tend the mushrooms on the forest floor. But mostly we stay below.”
“Why?”
The elder was quiet a moment. “Because up there, our world is small and easy to overlook. Down here, everything is exactly our size.”
Fai thought about that.
As the glowworms began to dim — their way of showing evening — the Mushroom People helped Fai back up through a tunnel that came out near the old oak tree at the garden’s edge.
“Will I remember this?” she asked, looking down at the elder.
“If you choose to,” the elder said. “Most people who visit forget by morning.”
“I won’t forget,” Fai said.
The elder smiled. “Then perhaps you’ll visit again. Leave a small hollow in the earth and we’ll know you’re coming.”
Fai walked back to her grandmother’s house as the sun set low and orange. At the back door, she turned and looked at the garden.
The ground looked the same as always. Ordinary soil, old roots, a few weeds.
But now she knew what was underneath.
She went inside to help with dinner, already thinking about what she would bring as a gift next time.
