Solid path again. The grate is behind you, doing its job, which is being boring.

Ellis’s lamp shakes, then steadies. From down-trail, if the circuit is kind, Ranger Wen’s bigger lamp may already be a rumor. If not, Ellis is enough of a witness that you did not rattle the mountain’s locked teeth.

“Knockers wander because sound wanders,” you say, trying it. Echoes are homeless on purpose. They bounce.

Wen—if Wen is there—would like that sentence. Ellis likes it less than a spirit and more than a scolding.

The trailhead box waits with Solano’s columns. The ranger-in-your-head waits with sealed-mine reasons: bad air, ice wedging rock, no second chances. You can ask for old names. You can ask for mechanisms.

You shout once, not into the grate, along the path, so any adult with ears knows you are a person on snow, not a person in a hole.

You wiggle your toes on purpose, a check for cold, not for ghosts. Dry enough. Found enough. The grate behind you is a good neighbor: it does not ask you in. Ellis kicks packed snow and watches it sparkle, which is ice doing geometry. You could still choose names or mechanisms. Both are doors that lead to the same stove if you are honest.