From the street, the door to Number 21 looked unremarkable. People could only speculate what secrets lay behind its worn black wood, and speculate they did, for it appeared never to open. I remarked to my companion that once I had been inside that building, over twenty years before.

“You never were,” he replied.

“I was, and I’ll tell you about it if you’ll only listen.”

My memory of the place began on a cold, winter’s morning in the year 1912. I was running to school, late because I couldn’t find my mittens, and just as I was about to pass Number 21 the door opened and a most peculiar man appeared on the step. He was very tall, thin, with a reddish-brown beard and hair revealed in tufts sticking out either side of his top hat. He was carrying a rabbit under one arm – a white rabbit. In his other hand he held a beat-up old leather valise. I was so arrested by this image that I came to a shuddering halt right in the middle of the cobblestone street.

The man seemed not to notice my presence, preoccupied as he was with his full load. I was most attracted by the rabbit, as I’d been begging my mother for one. I longed to pet its velvety ears and watch its little nose bob up and down. I decided it was worth risking the man’s irritation, so I walked timidly up to him.

“Mister, can I pet your bunny rabbit?”

He reacted so unexpectedly that I involuntarily took two steps back, and nearly collided with a bicycle carrying two young men. His face registered great shock, as if my speaking to him was the most astonishing thing in the world. He almost dropped the rabbit and I lunged forward to catch the quivering creature, but he righted himself just in time.

He spoke to me in a tremulous voice, full of awe and perhaps, something like fear. “What did you say?”

“I only asked to pet your rabbit mister. She’s a beauty.”

“You – you can see us?”

“Yes, you’re standing right there!”

“Oh my, well then you better come inside young man.”

This seemed like the kind of thing my mother had warned me against. But I really wanted to pet that rabbit. And the man seemed nice enough.

“Well okay then. Can I pet her once we’re inside?”

“He, Whitethorn is a he. And yes of course.”

For a moment I looked around uncertainly, but my curiosity got the better of me.

“Okay, but only for a minute. I’m late for school.”

The man smiled. “Don’t worry, you won’t be late by the time we’re finished.”

I stepped over the threshold, wondering what that could possibly mean. . .