Mira plants her feet and keeps her palm flat against the door. "I had help from the tree," she calls, and her voice comes out steadier than she expected. The scraping stops. A long silence follows — long enough that she can hear the creek below, and the wind moving through the pines, and her own heartbeat. Then the voice comes again, closer now, just on the other side of the oak slab: "Which tree?" The word is careful, almost urgent, as though the answer is a password that could go either way. Through the wood Mira feels a faint vibration, the same low hum the carved letters gave her, but stronger here, rhythmic, like breathing. A thin line of amber light traces the edge of the door. Something slides — a bolt, or a latch — and the door drifts open an inch, releasing the smell of dust and hot copper and old pages.