You write the true night until the pencil complains.

Solano, when she opens the trailhead box after the drift, photocopies your page for the science column and leaves the tommyknockers in the left column because she is not at war with feelings. Priya initials the notebook like a caretaker. Wen, on the radio, says “copy” in a way that means good.

Wonder stays. Names get accurate. The knocks are echo plus frost quake plus ice in rock. The song is thermal stress. The walker is a hare. The walls are Thistle. The vowel is wind.

You sleep. The notch unmakes its night noises into ordinary morning spruce. Cinder Notch Cabin is closed as a claim and very much in business as a teacher.

You add a last line you did not expect to need: I was scared, then I counted. Priya underlines it without making a speech. The stove ticks agreement. Outside, a jay starts its rude day too early, which is a living schedule, which is the point. THE END

What you learned: a winter notebook that records time, temperature, echo-counts, tracks, and what you actually heard separates wonder from wish. Echo, ice, animals, and flues explain “hauntings” without throwing the miners’ stories away.