You become a stump with opinions.

The white hart feeds. Pale muzzle, ordinary hunger. A stem, a leaf, a pause to listen. You are in the picture, not on top of it. That is the whole trick nobody puts on tavern signs.

Thorn of the hollow—arrived just now, or still here from the almost-grab—works the vine with a stick when the animal’s head is turned to a patch of frost-fern. The spiral slips. No horn. An antler, one-sided, still a crown. The hart flicks an ear at you as if to file you under not weather.

Wonder does not get smaller. Wonder gets truer.

Mira’s eyes are wet and she is not sad. “It’s still the Pale One.”

“It’s a hart,” you say. “That’s enough legend for one morning.”

Thorn’s mouth almost smiles. “The hollow will have you, if you come quiet. Or the stream will teach the water-story, if you still think magic lives only in a pointy stick.”

The ferns tick. A jay complains about everyone’s life choices.