The porch corner is a cafeteria.

Bark dust. Long orange marks where teeth have been. A quill, then another, like punctuation. Porcupine. Priya has a name for this one, if it is the same rude guest: Thistle. Animals chew wood for salt, for leftover soup ghosts, for something to do with orange teeth that never stop growing.

The “someone in the walls” is this body plus a legend plus a dark cabin. You do not poke Thistle. You do not salt the porch like a buffet. You name the chew and step back.

The flue is still singing. Two mysteries were hugging. They are both hungry in different ways.

You do not pull a quill like a trophy. Trophies are how people get poked. You sketch the tooth marks: two grooves, orange wood, a snack. Porcupines in winter are walking salt-hunts. Cabins are salt mines of soup and sweat and boots. The legend of someone in the walls just got a diet.