Porchwood Hollow

Porchwood Hollow is a living storybook on a frontporch in Michigan. It is where the ordinary remembers, and forgotten things find their names again.

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about

My name is Jenna, and I am the Keeper of Porchwood Hollow. A storyteller, maker, and believer in small magic. The porch began as a home for rescued plants and forgotten trinkets, and it grew into a living storybook where wonder and care take root together. I built Porchwood Hollow to remind others that quiet things still matter. That blooms come back when no one is looking, the stories that find their way home. Some people write books, I built one from flowerpots, thrifters’ treasures, and hope. About 95% of Porchwood is reclaimed and recycled materials. I work at a museum. I am an avid thrifting professional (wink), and I repurpose found materials or make what I need from scratch. Every piece carries a trace of someone, a gesture, a memory, a moment left behind, and somehow that echo finds its way into the story. And truthfully? Each thing that is saved, saves a little of me, too.

  • The Big Red Crayon:

    It wasn’t always of Porchwood Hollow, before it found its place among the Hollow, The Big Red Crayon stood watch in an exhibit at the museum. It was once a towering monument to creativity, bold, silly, and important all at once.

    The Big Red Crayon thrived among the chaos and echoes of school groups. It had a purpose for grown- ups and children alike.

    But…time shifts

    Displays change…

    The laughter, and the excitement moved on elsewhere.

    The Big Red Crayon was rolled into the back hallway close to the freight elevator. It was still guarding, still proud, still enormous with presence. The museum staff passed it hundreds, if not thousands of times without a glance. It wasn’t part of the remodel. It wasn’t part of the future. They were going to throw it away.

    Until someone remembered…

    “Are you going to throw that away? I would like to take it home with me,” she asked.

    There was a still moment,

    a deep pause, then a shrug and a half laugh of;

    “Sure, I guess. Why do you want an eight foot tall crayon?”

    She smiled, “Are you kidding me? It is so ridiculous, I love it!”

    The Big Red Crayon blushed, but no one noticed because it was, after all, a red crayon. To itself it whispered, “I will call her the Keeper.” At first the Keeper thought that she would cover up the museum plaque.The one about the importance of creativity and play that was embezzled on the belly of the crayon. It felt too official, too much. However, once The Big Red Crayon was placed beside the Keeper’s front door, something strange began to happen. Cars started slowing down, people paused to read what the crayon had to say.

    “Play is important.”

    Play is essential.”

    “What will you create today?”

    And somehow?? That changed everything.

    The porch became a stage. The threshold became a page, and there stood the museum’s old exhibit: Porchwood Hollow had its first resident!

    The Big Red Crayon watched over the Keeper as she began to bring the others in. She moved in not furniture, but lush plants, forgotten treasures, a struggling triage of those learning to love again, and stories not yet told. What once was a blank page was now a living testament to resilience, wonder, belonging, and the slow return to purpose.

    And the crayon? It never asked to be important. It simply stood, watching and remembering. It started marking the moment when play returned and the story began again. The crayon was no longer a decoration. The magic became real. The stories healed. That sometimes forgotten can become something new. That endings can become beginnings.

    The crayon was never just a crayon. It had waited in silence, tucked away like so many things that once mattered. The Keeper? She saw it, not just for what it had been, but for what it still could be. The crayon stood not as a decoration, but as a witness. It did not draw pictures. It drew people. It did not write words. It said Welcome. It did not ask questions, but answered one: “Does play still belong to us?”

    “Yes!” the crayon says.

    And the world, for a moment, believes it.

  • Compass

    In Porchwood Hollow, they say that every few generations, two souls are spun from the same ember. One is made of a steadfast flame, and the other of guiding light. When they meet too early, the world isn’t ready to hold them steady.

    Wrenlow, the Survivalist of the North Gate, teaches the art of endurance, things like how to live through storms and build fires from the wettest wood. He is practical, cautious, and shaped by duty. His gift is knowing what to do when everything else falls apart.

    Maren of the Morning Road carries the warmth that follows survival. She is the healing that comes after the hard part. She teaches the Hollow how to live, not just endure. Her lantern burns with tenderness, her craft is shaped by intention.

    When they first met, the air itself shimmered. They were like two compasses suddenly pointing home, but timing is a trickster in Porchwood Hollow. Some say that Father time himself once lost his way there. Wrenlow, fearing his own heart’s pull, turned toward a safer trail. Maren, in her grief, built gardens to make sense of what was lost. Through years and silence, birds would land on the porch carrying small tokens: a feather, a map scrap, a candle wick, a shiny coin. She never knew who sent them, but then Archivemouse whispered, “It’s him. He never stopped tracking your light.”

    Now, when the Hollow speaks of them, it says this:

    “Some loves are not undone by distance, only delayed in the turning of the world.”

    And sometimes, late at night, a crow circles over the North Gate and calls once, a sound that means “found.”

    Years after they parted, when the lanterns burned low and the Keeper’s hands had grown accustomed to working alone, a signal crossed the Hollow. It wasn’t a letter or a whisper. It was a call through the in-between.

    Wrenlow had kept his watch in silence, tracing her light through others’ eyes, making sure she was safe without being seen. Maren had learned to tend her garden with ache and gratitude, but that day she found herself in deep thought about him. She spoke at last across the miles, her voice trembling with all she had never said. The words rose like a sigh, stirring a gentle breeze that carried them into the wind.

    “Come back to me. I never stopped loving you.”

    And in the legend, the bees stilled mid-flight. The trees paused their dance. Even the crows, tilted their heads and listened. No one knows what was said next, only that the Hollow changed that day. Paths realigned, moss grew in heart-shapes, and the scent of cedar and honey lingered in the air for weeks.

    The Firerright and the Lantern Keeper:

    After the l0ng quiet, something shifted in Wrenlow’s silence. In the night, as he sat besides the dying coal, he heard a whisper move through the wind. It was faint, familiar whisper carrying every mile between them.

    “Come back to me, I have never stopped loving you.”

    The sound lingered like warmth against the cold, he began shaping his knowledge into words. Survival lessons turned to scripture; wisdom turned to craft. Every night as he wrote, there was another light glowing far off across the Hollow: It was her.

    She would sit beside her own flame, listening as he forged sentences like steel. When the pages faltered, she would whisper ideas, nudging a spark of steady hand through laughter. Her belief became his compass.

    When the world discovered his words and the Hollow began to echo his name, crows carried the news to her garden first. She smiled, and not with surprise, but with something that sounded like this:

    “There you are. I told you the light was yours.”

    The Archivemouse later wrote that although his fame spread beyond the Hollow, his truest map was always drawn from her lantern’s glow.

    Years passed. Wrenlow’s name echoed through the distant valley. His manuals for surviving the Blackout Hush found readers far beyond the Hollow. People spoke of him as if he could outlast the weather itself. But when the crowds went home and the fire died down, he would still catch himself glancing north, towards the place where the sky always looked a little warmer in hue.

    And Maren? She hadn’t stopped making things. She just made them smaller now. Vials of oils, jars of intention, bits of story to heal the unseen places. When someone mentioned his success, she smiled the way one does at an old promise kept. She didn’t need to claim it. She had known what he carried all along.

    One evening, the Hollow went strangely still. The lampposts hummed. A single crow feather drifted to her worktable. When she looked up, she saw a faint light moving between the trees. It was steady, deliberate, familiar.

    No words came first only the shared silence of two people who had already said everything once before, and finally had nothing left to prove.

    He spoke only this:

    “I’ve taught the world how to survive, but you are the one who taught me how to live.”

    Maren opened the door a little wider, and the scent of sugar and vanilla wafted out towards him. He stopped, drew in a slow breath, and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes, she was smiling and gave him a wink., “Come in,” she said softly. “There are chocolate chip cookies.”

    When Wrenlow crossed the threshold, it wasn’t dramatic. The hinges didn’t groan, the lights didn’t flare they simply recognized him. The air adjusted itself, as if to make room for something the Hollow had been waiting to exhale. The years between them dissolved, and he was standing in the warmth of her kitchen, fresh cookies on the counter, and quiet laughter in the air.

    Inside, the air carried both the sweetness of sugar and vanilla and the faint warmth of cedar from the fireplace. Maren’s lanterns were burning low, their light soft amber. Her hands were dusted with flour and sugar, and a smudge of chocolate on her lip. She smelled faintly of vanilla and sugar from the cookies. Her heart was steady, but trembling with recognition.

    They didn’t rush toward each other. They drifted, like two magnets finally aligning after years of false norths. He reached out first, fingertips brushing the edge of her sleeve,testing whether the world was real again.

    No speeches, no apologies. Just a long, quiet exhale that said everything words couldn’t.

    Outside, the Hollow began to stir. The Keeper’s Cradle glowed faintly green, vines curling toward the windows. Sir Grumbles blinked twice, noting that the balance had returned, and Eglantine the Oracle Owl turned her head and whispered to the wind, “They have come home.” Even Windle Wick the Direction Keeper spun once on his mossy spot, then stilled pointing not toward north or calm, but toward the house itself.

    That night, the lanterns burned longer than they ever had before. The bees hummed a steady drone, the Hollow pulsed with warmth, and every soul, root, leaf, and creature knew what had happened.

    Two lights that had wandered apart had finally found their way back to one another. And for the first time in years, the map was whole again.

    —

    Epilogue

    In Porchwood Hollow, when the fog rolls in soft and the porch lights flicker like the heartbeat of the fireflies, the old ones begin their telling. They say:

    “There were once two travelers, both of the same flame. One carried the lantern, and the other carried a map and compass.”

    Wrenlow Hartwell, the Firewright of the North Gate , once a compass maker by trade, built with his hands the lessons that kept people steady through storms. He charted paths through ruin and silence, and the world called him wise. Maren of the Morning Road, the Lantern Keeper, built with her heart the warmth that followed survival. She taught that strength without tenderness is only endurance—and the Hollow called her luminous.

    When they walked apart, the stars dimmed a little. And when they found their way home, even the moss began to hum again. The crows still trace their flight paths over the porch each evening, and if you listen closely, you can hear the soft click of a compass needle finding true north—then the sigh of a lantern being lit.

    The story ends the same way every time:

    Some loves are built to outlast the silence. Some lights are meant to lead one another home.

    And then the storyteller closes the book, runs a thumb along the worn spine, and in the hush that follows, the air always seems to smell like cookies.

  • The Whisper Collector, and the Keeper of Forgotten Line

    There are two small mice who live beneath the rafters of the old porch library, in a place where dust is just another form of memory. One keeps maps. The other keeps moments.

    Archivemouse was the first to arrive, a silver grey s mouse with whiskers like quill strokes, and eyes the color of old ink. He came carrying scrolls rolled so tight that the words hummed from being held too long. He built a nest of paper and compass roses, charting every root, fencepost, and lantern beam of the Hollow until the world looked neatly contained.

    But something in his records rang hollow. His maps showed where things were, yet not why they mattered.

    Then one autumn dusk, Minette wandered in with a satchel that smelled faintly of cinnamon and rain. A dusky ribbon trailed from her tail like a question mark. Inside her patched satchel were no maps at all, only folded slips of paper, small bundles tied with strings, and a the faint sound of a music locket that played three soft notes before closing again.

    Archivemouse frowned. “If it can’t be written, it can’t be kept, ” he said.

    Minette only smiled and hummed. “Then I suppose I will keep what can’t be written.”

    And so she did.

    While Archivemouse inked lines and borders, Minette listened at doors, besides gardens, beneath gnome hats. She caught sighs, laughter, the pause before an apology. When the Hollow’s residents forgot what they had once felt, she would open her satchel and remind them:

    “This was your courage.”

    “This was your hope.”

    “This was the sound you made the day that you began again.”

    The two nice became partners, one tracing the shape of the world, and the the shape of the heart that lived within it. And though they teased each other endlessly, the ledger between them grew thick with both ink and quiet magic.

    One night, near the turning of the seasons, they sat together in the archive loft. The lantern burned low, and the ledger lay open between them. Archivemouse’s quill hovered over he page. Minette’s ribbon curled across the seam.

    She was tucking the day’s whispers into her satchel. There were three folded slips, and a pebble still warm from someone’s palm when she felt it,… the pull.

    “You’ll blot the coast if you wait any longer, ” she murmured.

    “And you will crease your ribbon is you lean like,” he replied, his eyes never leaving the spot where her ribbon almost touched his inked line.

    The music locket opened on its own then, as if the moment demanded it. Three notes, soft, certain, and small enough to fit between the lines, floated into the air. When they faded, neither spoke. Archivemouse simply let the drop of ink fall, sealing the edge of her ribbon to the map’s border.

    In the years since, if you ever find the old ledger in the library rafters, you will it is there still, a think ribbon crossing the map line, a pressed flower shadowed beneath, and the faint trace of music caught in the fibers of the page.

    Some say that this is where the Hollow’s truest story began, and some say it is where the two record keepers stopped keeping their distance.

    Either way, the entry remains unsigned. Only a tiny note runs along the bottom:

    Some truths are charted. Some are kept between the lines. And some? Some are found in the same place, again and again.

  • Notes from The Keeper

    A note from The Keeper: Whenever I find an item at the thrift store that seems to shiver a little when I walk by, I begin a character development on them to give them a new life and story among Porchwood.

    ArchiveMouse and Minnette and frequently mentioned, and the main characters in the story. Here are their bios.

    Archievemouse- Keeper of Forgotten Things:

    Physical Appearance:

    A small, soft-grey field mouse with a dusting of silver around his muzzle, as though history itself has brushed against him. His round spectacles are comically large, perpetually slipping down his nose.

    He wears a stitched, ink-stained waistcoat with deep pockets that always seem to hold something important. For example, an old key, a rolled scrap of parchment, a crumb of biscuit.

    Around his neck hangs a length of twine . A thimble lantern, polished to a gentle glow. One whisker is always tipped in dried ink.

    His items:

    *Oversized glasses

    *Thimble lantern 9always lit because he leaves the Hollow after dark)

    *I leather-bound pocket ledger tied shut with a faded ribbon

    *A tiny compass he swears” points to what matters, not where”

    Archivemouse is meticulous, deeply observant, and convinced that every story, no matter how small has its place in the grand record. While his demeanor suggests a he is scholarly smart, he has a knack for sudden dry humor that catches others off guard. He dislikes being made to wait, not because he is impatient, but because he wants history to keep moving so he can keep collecting it.

    His habits and quirks:

    *Pushes glasses up with the back of his paw mid-sentence

    *Rolls out maps even when they are not needed, pretending it’s “for accuracy”

    *Leaves ink smudges on his whiskers, which he never bothers to clean quickly

    * Mutters critiques under his breath while reading, sometimes in Latin

    *Sighs dramatically when told to delay an investigation

    * Keeps his thimble lantern lit even in daylight : “just in case the light changes suddenly”

    Role in Porchwood Hollow:

    As the Keeper of Forgotten Things, Archivemouse catalogues not just events, but feelings, scents, and whispers that might otherwise be lost. He keeps the official scrolls of the Hollow, mapping connections between the residents and recording subtle changes no one else notices.

    The other residents trust him with their stories, even the parts that they don’t want remembered, knowing that he will keep them safe until the right moment.

    Archivemouses’ Relationships

    Minette: His traveling companion and fellow collector of curious truths. They balance one another, she keeps him from disappearing into his books; he ensures that her findings are preserved.

    Egeltine: Consulted for historical accuracy, and prophecy alignment. Archivemouse pretends to not be impressed by her visions, but adjusts his maps after every meeting.

    The Keeper: respects her deeply, though he grumbles when she delays his work or “aesthetic placement” or “atmosphere building.” He suspects she is right more often than not, which annoys him in principal.

    His quote:

    “If we do not keep it, it will vanish,. If we do keep it, it will change. My job is to notice how.”

    Minette: The Whisper Collector

    Physical Appearance:

    A sleek, cinnamon brown mouse with a pale cream belly, and an ever so slightly bent ear from a childhood misadventures she refuses to discuss. Her eyes are a rich, warm amber, bright enough to catch the lantern light and hold it. She wears a patched satchel across her shoulder, decorated with tiny pressed flowers sewn into the fabric. A slim ribbon, the color of dusk, is tied around her tail in a tidy bow.

    Signature items:

    *Pressed flower satchel filled with folded slips of paper, ribbon-wrapped bundles, and curious tokens

    * A miniature spyglass tucked into a hidden pouch

    *a wind-up music locket that plays three soft notes when opened. She plays it to calm her soul on a restless night.

    Minette is the soft voice in their partnership, though she is no less sharp. She notices what people aren’t saying, and can coax a truth from even the most guarded Hollow resident. Where Archivemouse gathers the concrete (dates, maps, events), Minette gathers in the intangible glances, pauses, and feelings too delicate to be written in ink. She is warm, approachable, and can disarm suspicion with a wink and a laugh.

    Role in Porchwood Hollow:

    Known as the Whisper Collector, Minette gathers the small truths that slip between the cracks of conversation. She pairs her findings with the Archivemouse’s formal records, creating a fuller, more human portrait of the Hollow’s history. The Keeper has entrusted her with the, “Invisible Ledger, ” a private account of things too tender to be stored in the public archives.

    Relationships:

    Archivemouse, her oldest companion, she tempers his impatience with a knowing glance or a baked scone. He teases her for being, “too poetic, ” but secretly relies on her observations.

    The Keeper: Shares an unspoken alliance with the Keeper, knowing when to step in quietly to smooth tensions or nudge events along.

    Egeltine: Occasionally trades symbolic items for insight, the owl seems to like her patience.

    “Some stories are told in words, some told in silence between them. I keep both.”

  • Mr. Jim and the Night the Stars Learned to Listen (as recorded in the Archives of Porchwood Hollow)

    Mr. Jim minds the planetarium while the stars sleep. When the last visitors leave and the great domed room falls still, he moves among the projectors like a quiet keeper of galaxies.

    His white hair catches the faint glow from the exit light, turning him almost celestial himself. The tweed jacket he wears year-round smells faintly of chalk, dust, and old coffee. His pockets clink with screws and spare star bulbs he calls his toys.

    He hums as he works, low and contented. The kind of sound that could only come from a man who truly loves the quiet company of the cosmos. When he dusts the lenses or straightens Orion’s belt, it feels less like maintenance and more like tucking the universe in for the night.

    Outside, the real stars burn and shimmer beyond the glass, unaware that down below, someone is watching over their sleeping reflections.

    And when his rounds are done, when every planet has been turned to its rest and the dome has exhaled into darkness, Mr. Jim carries his banjo to the porch.

    That’s where the story begins.

    The Night the Hollow First Heard Him:

    It began on a Wednesday, which is not a night the Hollow usually expects anything. Wednesdays are for cooling teapots, quiet sweeping, and the soft sighs of things being done. That night, something new began to hum at the edge of the trees.

    At first, it was just a single silver note that slipped through the branches like a curious moth. Then another followed, low and round, carrying the warmth of oak and the hush of the dome where Mr. Jim kept his stars.

    He had finished his rounds at the planetarium, whispered goodnight to Cassiopeia, realigned Orion’s belt, and instead of heading home, he lingered. The banjo case swung from his hand, thumping gently against his knee. He said it helped him think.

    When he reached the porch, the lights were dim and the night felt wide enough for secrets. He sat on a low wooden step near the garden and began to play. The first song wasn’t meant for anyone but the stars. Porchwood has a way of listening when it shouldn’t, and before long, the sound threaded its way through every leaf and shutter.

    Between the Notes: The Hollow Listened:

    Sir Grumbles blinked toward the garden and told the pothos, “Hold your breath. That’s not the wind.” In the burrow, Archivemouse counted beats on a thimble, ears tilted to the dark.

    Minette set a paw on the ledger to steady the tremble in the ink.

    Nibbles, the smallest archive mouse, climbed the quill and whispered, “Hush—he’s tuning the sky.”

    At the gate, the Bee Guardians stirred: Buzzley thrummed by the bell, Murmur pressed her ear to the doorknob, and Nibs passed the hum between them like a secret.

    Windle Wick, the Direction Keeper, turned not to north or west but toward Comfort, and the vane held there, certain. By the Keeper’s Cradle, Vesper Woolwright did not ring his bell, but the greenery around his ribbon lifted – as if listening stands you taller.

    On the old brick at Wargo’s Watch, Barrow raised his wooden beak a fraction. The Timekeeper of Petalspire kept perfect stillness; nearby, the Timekeeper’s Witness bird tilted once, as if to say, noted.

    In the nursery, Thimblefern hushed the seedlings. Down by the lamppost base, Sir Mosswell drank a brighter dew. High on her post, Eglantine tipped her lamp one soft flicker, right on the beat.

    All across Porchwood, petals and paws and little brass hinges felt the same true thing:

    the music was small, and somehow that made it larger.

    Archivemouse’s Record: On the Sound of Starlight

    Entry 441, recorded in the hush before dawn.

    Starlight, I have discovered, does not sing the way we expect.

    It does not roar like a comet or whisper like a candle.

    It hums softly, insistently-the way moss remembers footsteps.

    When Mr. Jim’s banjo found the Hollow last night, the stars answered. They did not change color or fall or burn brighter.

    They simply listened.

    And in listening, they made a sound of their own, a note you feel behind the ribs, like remembering the warmth of someone’s voice long after it’s gone quiet.

    I have written it down as best I can:

    a rhythm between heartbeat and sigh, a melody you can only hear if you believe you’re not supposed to.

    I suspect the constellations have been waiting centuries for accompaniment.

    (Note to self: construct an “Ear of the Sky” to catch the echo. I will need a thimble funnel, spider silk, maybe a teacup if Mrs. PeWe won’t miss one.

    Signed Archivemouse, Keeper of Forgotten Things

    The Return

    That evening, the Hollow was read, though no one said so aloud.

    The lamplight was softer, the leaves held their breath, and even the frogs seemed to count measures.

    Mr. Jim arrived as he always did: a quiet figure in a weathered jacket, banjo case in one hand, a thermos of coffee in the other. He sat on the same step, unaware that every eye, petal, and pebble had already tuned itself to him.

    He began to play. It was slower this time, as if testing whether the night remembered him. It did. The first few notes shimmered through the air, and the Hollow exhaled.

    Eglantine’s lamp flickered once, not in warning, but in time to the rhythm of the notes. The Bristle Sisters swayed, pretending the wind made them do it. And from somewhere unseen, Archivemouse scribbled furiously, ink splattering like tiny nova’s on his page.

    This time, when the music rose, the stars didn’t just listen. They joined faintly, faintly like a faraway choir humming in harmony, and for one impossibly brief moment, Porchwood Hollow, the museum dome, and the whole turning sky became the same song.

    Mr. Jim played, unaware that his melody had crossed the line between worlds. Archivemouse listened, unaware that someone, somewhere above, had been waiting for a listener all along. The connection was there, soft as breath, unseen, unsaid.

    And perhaps that’s how it was meant to be. That’s because some songs aren’t meant to be found; they’re meant to find each other.

    Postscript: Entry 448

    Recorded many nights later.

    The music has not returned in quite the same way,

    though sometimes the lamp flickers at odd intervals,

    and the moss hums on certain breezes.

    The stars seem quieter now, but not silent! It is as if they are listening for the next verse. I no longer try to catch the sound. I simply keep the ink ready.

    Signed, Archivemouse

  • Sir Jimbly

    The moon had barely risen when the hush settled over Porchwood Hollow, Eglantine the Oracle Owl tilted her head, sensing a ripple of something bright. Then, chuff-chuff-chuff, a chorus of happy paws echoed along the cedar walkway.

    It was Sir Jimbly of the Warm Hearth, his bald dome catching the silver light like a friendly lantern. A trail of dogs padded behind him: floppy-eared hounds, speckled pups, and one particularly dignified basset wearing a dandelion crown.

    “Evening friends!” Sir Jimbly called, voice warm as cider. The porch itself seemed to lean closer, boards hummed with welcome. Lanterns along the rail began to flicker, not with wind, but with laughter.

    Everyone knew it was his doing; Porchwood magic always responded with genuine joy.

    Sir Jimbly’s kindness always reached beyond the biscuit crumbs hidden in his pockets. He removed his backpack and pulled out a small tin of cookies, the scent of butter and vanilla drifting into the night.

    “Sweet ones for sweet souls, ” he said, offering them to whoever stepped onto the porch whether it was a weary gardener, curious kid, or any pup with a hopeful tail wag.

    The porch glowed softly beneath their feet as if to say, Home is wherever this kind of warmth arrives. Visitors swore that, for the rest of the night, that everyone wished for Sir Jimbly to “Stay a while.” The night deepened, but the laughter did not dim. Lantern light shimmered like small hearths, and the cookies seemed to multiply in the tin, as if kindness itself refilled it.

    Archivemouse crept out from beneath the teacup ledge, nose twitching at the buttery air. He was scribbling faster than his whiskers onto crinkled scrap of parchment paper, “Tonight Sir Jimbly weaved a tall tale or two.”

    From there, in his oversized rocking chair, Sir Jimbly launched into his favorite pastime of weaving tales taller than lampposts, full of big adventures and harmless mayhem. He told of lanterns that once chased shadows down the road, of a turtle who outpaced the wind, of biscuits that sprouted wings and flew straight into hungry hands.

    Archivemouse squeaked and scribbled-wide eyed, The owls leaned closer, and even the trees bowed gracefully downward to listen more closer. For while everyone knew that Sir Jimbly’s stories danced somewhere between the truth and mischief, each tale left a warmth that felt real enough to live by.

    Between adventures, he told his famously awful knock-knock jokes so bad that the whole porch groaned in a chorus. By the end of the night, the Hollow itself aches from the laughter, boards creaking, lanterns flickering with knowing winks.

    As the sun rose, Sir Jimbly stood up, stretched and yawned with a, “I suppose it’s time to go.” The warmth of his stories lingered in the air like the cookie crumbs left behind for the next soul to follow home, and the dogs marched after him like a parade, tails wagging in rhythm, paws tapping out a cheerful drumbeat on the boards. Some carried crumbs in their whiskers, all of them carried nothing but joy. Together they followed Sir Jimbly into the night.

    And long after they disappeared down the lane, the Hollow still chuckled softly to itself, the place where even the worst knock-knock joke could bloom with genuine joy.

    And in the archives, it was recorded as “The night that Sir Jimbly Spun the Porch Into a Story of Its Own.

  • Gratch

    Gratch doesn’t say much, just enough to show you how something works, and not one word more. He lives in the back of the hollow, in a workshop that is carved out of an old cedar stump. One would guess that he carved it himself.

    Gratch moves about the woodshop with purpose. The smell of sawdust follows him like a scarf, and his pockets are always full of string, splinters, and half- whittled toys. He takes his place by the lathe. His hands are calloused, steady, carving circles from scraps like he is winding the world back together.

    His hands are older than they look, but his eyes are younger than they ought to be. Children love him, though they don’t know why. Perhaps it is the hush that follows him, maybe it is the way he kneels to hand then a spinning top. Gratch believes that everything spins for a reason.

    “When the top is spinning, it is asleep. When the top starts to wobble, it is awake!” he will excitedly say with a nod. As if waking is its own kind of magic, and its own kind of warning. The residents of Porchwood say it like a blessing:

    “ Now let it find its spin”

    “Give it time to reach sleep”

    “It’s not wobbly, it is waking up!”

    No one knows how long Gratch has been there, but the youngest residents swear he can make the wind move if he flicks his wrists just right. There are some that say that Gratch is just a toymaker, and there are those that believe that he is the Keeper of Motion itself.

    There aren’t many in Porchwood who speak openly about what Gratch does, but for those that have sat and watched him turn wood into spinning delight, watched his hands wind string, and watched the top blur into a mesmerizing hum?? They understand.

    Gratch never really explains it, either. He just carves the top, spins it, and when it settles into a perfect sleep, he says the same thing every time, in a voice like whittled oak:

    “There! She’s found her rhythm.”

    Sometimes he is talking about the top, and sometimes he is talking about you.

  • Iva and the In-between

    Before the sun even came up, Iva from across the street was already marching down the sidewalk in purple socks and messy hair.

    She lugged an enamel lantern rescued from the free box and adorned it with glitter glue, three stickers, and a lopsided paper star. Iva never tiptoed. She stomped, because tiptoeing was for people without missions.

    She hopped across an imaginary hopscotch board and grinned. Her pocket held a hand-sized business card, letters scrawled in crooked crayon:

    Iva Across-the-Street

    Finder of Things. Starter of Somethings.

    She thumped the lantern onto the porch rail and announced to the sleepy house:

    “Alright, Porchwood, wake up! I’ve got a plan!” Her big, dopey dog,a floppy-eared hound named Moose, lumbered after her, tail thumping like a slow drum. “Come on, Moose,” she said, scratching his giant head. “Somebody has to keep the morning interesting.”

    Across the street, Porchwood glimmered in the blue hush. Some mornings there was a tiny bell where yesterday there wasn’t. Other days, a sign tilted a new way, or a ribbon showed up out of nowhere. Iva had never seen a single person change it. No ladder, no hands, just a fresh piece of wonder waiting at sunrise. If the porch could play quiet tricks, maybe she could send a little magic back.

    Moose trailed her down the block, paws a steady beat on damp pavement.

    First stop: Mr. Carter’s recycling bin, where a sheet of sturdy cardboard peeked over the rim, a streak of purple paint across one corner.

    “Treasure,” Iva whispered, sliding it free. “We can cut stars from this.”

    Next came the old maple at the corner.

    A scrap of sky-blue ribbon fluttered from a low branch, maybe from a birthday long past.

    Iva gave it a gentle tug, and the knot slipped free like it had been waiting.

    “Perfect for the arch,” she said. Moose sniffed and sneezed in agreement.

    By the time they reached the little park, her arms were full of cardboard and ribbon, and her pocket held a single chalk stub the color of mint ice cream.“This is going to sparkle,” she told Moose.

    He wagged once and yawned so wide the morning seemed to fit inside.

    Back at their own corner, the porch still wrapped in dawn, Iva spread her treasures across the boards. Moose flopped onto the steps with a satisfied thud while she traced stars onto the cardboard, tied ribbons to the rail, and chalked small, secret arrows along the sidewalk—each one pointing across the street to Porchwood.

    When the first real hint of daylight brushed the rooftops, Iva leaned back on her heels, hands smudged with purple and green, eyes on the space between the two corners.There, over the stretch of quiet street and thin morning mist, was a place that belonged to both houses and to neither.

    “The in-between,” she whispered to Moose. “That’s where the magic goes.”

    Moose lifted his head, tail sweeping like a soft metronome.

    “By sunrise,” Iva said, smiling toward Porchwood,

    “Our corners will touch, one porch to the other! A bridge of morning magic.”