Step through the Archive's blue portal into a misty autumn evening in Ireland's Boyne Valley, around the year 780. It's Samhain, the old night when summer ends, cattle come down from the hills and fires glow on the ridges. Long before carved pumpkins and costumes, this was the night people believed the ancient mounds stood open and the line between one year and the next grew thin. Tonight that old belief is quietly true. Every doorway you step through opens onto the same place on a different Samhain: west-facing doors lead back into years gone by, east-facing doors lead ahead into years to come, and the deeper you step, the further you go. Your guide is Úna, a herder bringing her family's cattle home to their farm behind its earthen bank. Her little son has asked her a question she can't answer: when he's an old man, will anyone still keep Samhain? Together you churn butter and warm oatcakes by the hearth, follow the dark river path beneath the stars, and come to the Brú, a great green mound ringed with carved spiral stones that was already thousands of years old in Úna's time. Its doorway faces the midwinter sunrise, and so it opens forward. Step by step you watch the old festival grow: monks gathering apples on the eve of All Hallows, families roasting hazelnuts by the fire, and at last a cottage window glowing with turnip lanterns and children's laughter. Nothing frightening waits in the dark tonight, only lantern light, apples and a custom carried lovingly from one generation to the next. It's a cozy, richly researched sleep story about how an ancient harvest night slowly became Halloween, ending with a gentle walk home and a long, peaceful autumn night.