Porchwood Hollow

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.”