The path dipped.

Not dramatically. Just enough to make Marek’s knees start whispering rude things about Oswald’s decision-making. At the bottom of the slope, the mine widened into a flat cavern cut by ancient miners with shaky hands or bad lighting. In its far corner stood a door.

A perfectly normal wooden door.
Which was, frankly, more suspicious than anything else they’d seen.

“No frame,” Oswald muttered, approaching cautiously. “No latch. Just… a door. In stone.”

Marek stood back. “It’s mocking us. You know that, right?”

Bram tilted his head. “I like it. Mysterious. Minimalist. Smells like cherry varnish and poor decisions.”

Oswald placed his hand just near the surface, not touching. “It’s not enchanted.”

“Does it open?”

They all stared at it for a moment, as if it might decide.

Marek took out the lantern. The moment the light touched the door, the shadows changed — not just behind them, but on the door itself.

It flickered.

For a brief second, the surface shimmered like a pond catching wind. Shapes moved in the reflection: a table, a desk, a metal cup, someone welding. Then, snap — it stopped.

“...Was that my kitchen?” Marek asked.

Oswald leaned closer. “No handle. No hinges. No keyhole. But there’s something behind it.”

Bram nodded seriously. “Maybe it’s a metaphor.”

“It’s definitely rude,” Marek muttered.

Oswald turned to the others. “Let’s make camp here. I need time to think. The door… shouldn’t be here. But something wants it seen.”

Marek pulled his coat tighter. “Well, if it starts talking, I’m quitting.”

Bram was already pulling snacks from his bag. “Too late. You’re invested. You're pipe-deep in this now.”

Marek grunted, took another puff from his pipe—today’s flavor was hazelnut and surrender—and leaned against a nearby rock.

Then he froze.

There, perched on the flat surface of the door — where no shelf or handle existed — sat a tiny hedgehog, barely the size of Marek’s fist. It stood perfectly still, as if deeply contemplating the philosophical ramifications of being visible.

Its little black eyes met his.

Then it gave a very tiny nod, turned in place like it was performing an elegant stage exit, and vanished. Not scurried. Not blinked out.

Vanished.

Marek stared.

Oswald noticed his expression. “Another shadow?”

“…Something like that.”

---------

They set up a modest camp — one lamp, two cloaks, and a cooking setup that should absolutely not have worked in a low-oxygen mine.

Bram was roasting something over open flame. Actual flame. Inside a cavern where “airflow” was a polite way of saying “don’t breathe too hard.”

But nothing burned wrong. No smoke lingered. The fire just… behaved. Like it was Bram’s pet.

No one asked why.
No one wanted to know.

Oswald sat near the strange door, tracing faint patterns in the dust with a glimmering reed. His lips moved without sound — probably running diagnostics on reality again.

Marek sat on a flat rock. Pipe in hand. Ember long dead.

And still, he didn’t move.

His eyes weren’t closed. His brain simply… buffered.

For a while.

Then, gently, a memory creaked open like an old cupboard door:

A backyard, cluttered but peaceful.
A wooden birdhouse nailed slightly crooked to a post.

Marek, with his aching knees and a coffee cup he didn’t remember pouring, stood refilling sunflower seeds into a tray. He placed a few nuts near the base, where the dirt was worn thin.

And next to the nuts? A blob of cheap cat food in an old plastic lid. For his new friend.

The hedgehog.

It arrived at sundown like it had a standing appointment. Quiet. Serious. Occasionally judgmental. A tiny neighborhood god accepting humble offerings.

Marek would talk to it — softly, always softly — about soccer games, bad referees, even worse politicians, and banks that bet against the poor like a casino with bonus malice.

And about life. His own. Others’. The weirdness of getting older and finding new things to hate gently.

He never named it. That felt too intimate.
But he did talk like it understood every word.

And he always made sure the cat food was fresh.

Back in the quarry, Marek stirred. Barely.

He rubbed his head, half-expecting to find a stone settling in like a satisfied parrot. He didn’t.

But his hand lingered there anyway, like maybe something warm had been.

Bram was mid-hum on a strange tune with no key and too much rhythm.

“Oswald?” he said, poking the silence. “He’s doing the thing again.”

Oswald didn’t turn from the door. “It’s fine. He’s stabilizing.”

“Looks like nesting to me.”

Oswald gave a soft laugh. “Some minds need a soft place for their memories to land.”

Marek exhaled. The pipe remained cold, but the thought of hazelnut and quiet stayed in his mouth.

The lantern beside him glowed steady.

And somewhere beyond its light, the door breathed again — just slightly. Enough to remind them it was still waiting.