There is a small round eye by the mouth of the cave, and when a stranger touches it, the cave screams.
I did not put the eye there. I do not know who did. But my tribe trusts it. When it sings its short bright cry, they lift their heads, they move to the mouth of the cave, they open it to whoever waits. They do not check first. They do not smell the wind. The eye speaks, and they obey.
This is a good thing and a mad thing at once.
Good, because the cry warns us. No one crosses my threshold now without the cave knowing. The old fear, the shape in the dark that comes close while you sleep, that fear the eye eats. It sees the stranger before the stranger sees me.
Mad, because my tribe has taught the cry to mean welcome. A wolf could press the eye. A wolf will not, but a bad man with a wolf's heart can, and my people will open the mouth and smile. They hear the song and forget the reason for the song.
I have watched them. When the eye cries, no one reaches for a spear. They reach for the door.
I keep my own watch. I stand near the mouth when the cry comes, and I look, and I decide. The eye may sing. I answer.
A warning you obey without looking is not a warning.
It is a leash.