Some claim it’s merely a myth—that remains to be seen.

It’s said to bear only one piece of fruit every thousand or so years—if so, then I fervently hope this is the time of the harvest and that I’m the first to arrive (otherwise, I’m in for an awfully long wait).

I stop, close my eyes, and tune into the wisdom of Summerland. Trusting it to guide me in just the right direction as my feet start moving again, seemingly of their own accord, and when I gaze down at the ground, I’m glad I had the foresight to manifest the hiking boots when I start leaving big clumps of grass in my wake. Clumps that soon turn to thick clouds of dust when the grass suddenly gives way to loose dirt, forcing me to rely on the thick treads of my soles to keep my gait steady when the terrain changes again, becoming rougher, littered with sharp rocks and boulders, and so loaded with hairpin curves and switchbacks I’m forced to go slower, and then slower still.

But no matter how treacherous the path may become, I will not cry uncle, I will not give up, and I will not even think about returning to where I came from. Even when it ultimately grows so narrow and steep it falls off into two bottomless chasms that yawn on either side, I’m committed to the journey. There will be no turning back.

I strive to keep my breath even, steady, as I do my best not to look down. Just because I can’t die doesn’t mean I’m looking for danger. Given the choice, I prefer to play it safe for as long as I can.

The trail soars higher, and then higher still, and when it begins to snow, I can’t help but wonder if it has something to do with the altitude. But it’s not like it matters. It’s not like knowing the reason will keep my feet from slipping precariously close to the craggy abyss that gapes wide far below. It’s not like it’ll stop my skin from chilling and turning frigid and blue.

Knowing the light jacket I stashed in my bag is hardly equipped to handle a drop in temperature so extreme, I close my eyes and picture a new one—something big and down-filled, something that’ll leave me looking like a big shapeless blob but will hopefully get the job done. But when nothing happens, when no coat appears, I know I’ve reached the part of the journey where magick and manifesting no longer work. I’ll have to rely on myself, and the few things I had the foresight to manifest before I got to this point.

I slip into the jacket, pulling the sleeves down past my wrists until they cover my numb, frozen fingertips, keeping my eyes on the trail and my mind on my destiny, committed to making do with what I have, while reminding myself of all the challenges I’ve already survived—obstacles that wouldn’t have seemed possible just one year ago.

But despite all my focus, despite the continuous loop of pep talks and tree facts I repeat in my head, I eventually get to the point where I’m just too cold and exhausted to continue. So I start searching for a place to set up camp, though it’s not long before I determine there isn’t one. This freezing cold landscape doesn’t offer much in the way of rest.

I toss my bag on the icy cold ground and position myself right on top of it, pressing my nose to my knees and wrapping my arms tightly around me in a futile attempt to both warm and steady myself. And though I try to sleep, I can’t. Though I try to meditate, my mind won’t slow down. So instead, I spend the time convincing myself that I made the right choice. That despite my completely miserable state, all is fine and good and exactly as it should be—but it falls way short of soothing me.

I’m too cold.

Too bone tired and weary.

But mostly, I’m too alone. Too filled with thoughts of missing Damen and the way we used to be.

No matter what I try to convince myself of, no amount of positive thinking could ever replace the very real, very wonderful comfort of having him beside me.

And in the end, that’s what gets me through. The memory of him is what allows me to close my eyes for a while and drift off into some other place, some better place. A place where it’s just him and me and none of our troubles exist.

I have no idea how long I slept—all I know is that the second I open my eyes and swipe my hand across my face, I see the landscape has morphed. The trail is still impossibly narrow, there’s still a huge, gaping chasm on either side, but the season has changed—it’s no longer winter, which means I’m no longer forced to huddle against a pounding cold blizzard.

Instead, I’m caught in a downpour, a relentless spring rain that turns the ground to mud and shows no sign of stopping.

I struggle to my feet, quickly slipping my arms out of the sleeves as I haul my jacket up over my head and tie those same sleeves under my chin in an attempt to keep from getting any more drenched than I already am. Tackling the trail one careful step at a time, having given up on inspiring thoughts, reminisces, or anything else, and reserving my focus for staying upright, staying steady, and not toppling over the side. And when the rain turns to a blazing hot sun that leaves the ground dry and cracked, I don’t bat an eye—and when that same sun is cooled by a warm, sultry breeze I know that summer has now turned to fall.

The cycle of seasons repeating itself until it no longer fazes me, until I form a routine. Bundling up and hibernating through winter, dodging the downpour of spring, peeling off my T-shirt ’til I’m down to my tank top when summer comes, then donning it again when summer turns to fall. Through it all, I just keep on keeping on, doing my best to ration my food and water supply, doing my best not to panic, and nearly succeeding with the latter until something happens that shocks me to the core.