The little hedgehog has been a tight, thorny knot beneath the fern since the sun first touched the moss.

He remains a perfect, prickly sphere even as the late morning heat draws the scent of pine resin from the bark. Around him, the forest is in transit; a line of wood ants carries a moth’s wing like a tattered silk map, and the dry leaves crunch under the weight of a passing vole. The hedgehog does not unspool to taste the fallen blackberries or to feel the humid breeze. He sits in his own shadow, guarded by a thousand sharp points that keep the world at a distance.
It is a heavy labor to be so well-defended. We often mistake our quills for a sanctuary, forgetting that a fortress built of spikes is a lonely place to dwell. To be known is to risk the soft underbelly, to set aside the armor and allow the light—and perhaps a friend—to touch what is hidden. True companionship begins only when we decide that the warmth of another is worth the danger of being reached.