Poppy swept the path near the edge of the clearing, her white robe swishing with each stroke of the broom. She'd been doing chores all morning, trying to stay useful without getting too close to anyone. The morning sun filtered through the trees, and she could hear voices from the garden where some of the others were working. She wanted to join them, to help with something that mattered, but her quills had already caught on two doorframes and one unfortunate passing squirrel this week. Better to stick to sweeping, where the only thing she could hurt was dirt. A fox appeared at the forest edge, carrying a cloth bundle and looking uncertain. Poppy's heart jumped. Someone new. She dropped the broom and hurried forward, her paw already raised in greeting. "Welcome! We're so glad you're—" But her foot caught on a root. She pitched forward, reaching out to steady herself, and her quills drove straight into the fox's arm. Blood welled up between the spines. The fox gasped and stepped back. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm always doing this, I'm so clumsy, please don't—" Poppy spotted a bright flower growing nearby and yanked it from the ground, dirt clinging to its roots. She shoved it toward the fox, her paws shaking. "Here, please take this, I'm sorry, it's beautiful, I thought you might—" The fox pressed a cloth to the wound and stared at the flower, then at Poppy. "It's fine," they said quietly. "Really." But they took the flower and stepped to the side, putting space between them. Poppy's throat tightened. She'd done it again. The first moment with someone new, and she'd already made them bleed.

That night, Poppy sat in her den with a pair of flat stones and tried to file down her quills. She pressed one stone against the base of a spine on her shoulder and scraped the other across it. The quill resisted, then splintered. Pain shot through her back. She bit her lip and kept going. Three more quills broke before she gave up and slipped outside with the stones tucked under her arm. Past the edge of the clearing, she found the old mossy stone with the gap beneath it — a spot she'd discovered weeks ago where the ground dipped away into shadow. She wedged herself between the stone and the hillside and started again, working on the quills along her left arm this time. The scraping sound seemed loud in the quiet. A twig snapped. Poppy froze. Finn stood at the top of the slope, a basket of laundry in his paws, staring down at her. At the stones. At the broken quills scattered in the dirt. His ears flattened. "Poppy, what are you doing?" She opened her mouth, but no apology came out. Just the truth, small and tired. "I thought if I was less sharp, maybe someone would stay." Finn set down the basket and climbed down to her. He didn't touch her, but he sat close enough that she could see his whiskers twitch. "That fox stayed," he said. "They're still here. I saw them at the well this morning." Poppy blinked. "But I hurt them." "Yeah," Finn said. "And they stayed anyway." He picked up one of the stones and turned it over in his paws, then set it aside. "You don't have to be different, Poppy. You just have to let people decide for themselves." He stood and picked up his basket. "Come help me hang laundry tomorrow. I'll show you." He walked back toward the clearing, and Poppy sat alone with the stones in her lap. She didn't know if Finn was right. But for the first time, she wondered if maybe she didn't have to fix herself before someone could want her around.