The duo moved along the path, where weeds and gravel had entered a long-term relationship. Below them lay the quarry—wide, cracked, and suspiciously quiet.

“This is the quarry?” Marek asked, chewing the edge of his pipe.

Oswald nodded. “Used to be a major mine. People mined Path Ore here.”

“Path... what now?”

“Path Ore,” Oswald repeated. “A material used to channel energy from the Paths. Think of it as… wiring for magic. Sort of.”

Marek squinted at him. “Wiring?”

Oswald shrugged. “Alright, bad metaphor. It resonates with path flows. Sometimes boosts them. Sometimes stabilizes. Sometimes explodes—so, you know, handle with reverent terror.”

They started descending the narrow path that led down the rim of the quarry, dust rising with every step.

“Most folk just carry it as a trinket,” Oswald continued. “Low-grade stuff. Keychains, belt clips, hidden in amulets. Might do nothing. Might calm your dreams. Might give you a rash. But the rich use refined ore for equipment—magic blades, enchanted robes, rings that glow when people lie…”

Marek puffed his pipe. “Sounds expensive.”

“Which is why most people wear it like perfume. False hope with a sparkle.”

The quarry’s floor flattened out into a small basin of broken rail tracks, rotting carts, and old scaffolding leaning like they’d been drunk for a decade.

They moved deeper into the quiet. The world felt padded, like someone had wrapped it in cotton.

And then Marek stopped.

In the shadow of a leaning slab of rock, something moved.

A small creature, waddling softly.

His heart jumped sideways. And then something snapped.

Darkness pulled down over his mind like a bedsheet. Inside, flickering badly, was a memory. Poor resolution. Skipping frames. It stuttered into life:
A cold basement. A cracked tile floor. A single bowl of cat food beside stacked firewood. A small black creature arriving every night. Sniffing, eating, staring at him like it knew the secret. It was one of his small friends, which stayed with him in good times and bad times.

The memory vanished.

The hedgehog, looking like his past friend, stepped forward. Blinked. Licked his boot and slowly moves away.

Marek blinked back. “Oswald… did you see—did you see the one licking my boots?”

Oswald turned, looked at him strangely. “No. I saw you staring at a rock. And asking about your footwear.”

“I—”

Oswald raised an eyebrow. “Mines play tricks. Echoes. Sometimes we remember things. Sometimes we see what others like to remember.”

He tilted his head. “I didn’t know you had that kind of liking.”

“It’s not like that,” Marek muttered.

The hedgehog already waddled quiet a distance, disappearing behind a chunk of broken ore.

Marek stepped forward, but there was nothing. No trace. Not even a scuff in the dust. Just silence.

He stood there for a while. The pipe burned low. It tasted like christmas mixed with a bit of something old and embarrassed.

He felt confused about the taste.