Bearclaw Valley weep little lion man

Whatever's on the doormat has caught Merrick's eye. The back of his head, spiky and low, undoubtedly belongs to a predator. If Bearclaw Valley was mysterious and haughty, it had learned how from him. 
It's Evien. Suddenly he's back in the meadow with his head on his arm, his hand uncomfortable and dead but not enough for him to want to move, his nose in the dirt, smelling week-old rain. After telling a secret, you always felt like you were going to collapse in on yourself. As if the secret was a part of you and your house. Your body.
Evien, he says in lieu of a greeting, before searching for words that weren't there. You're here.