Morning did not crash into me.
It arrived gentle, slow, like light tapping the shoulder of sleep asking,
"May I?"
I blinked awake to the sound of Yuna breathing — steady, rhythmic, true.
Her fever had eased in the night. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple, not fever-bright but effort-cooled.
Kaji lifted his head first — wolf eyes asking if I was ready to be awake yet.
I didn't speak. I only placed one hand on his fur. He rested his head back down, permission granted.
The world exhaled softly around us.
Hana appeared in the doorway with a bowl of water and herbs.
"You stayed awake most of the night," she said quietly.
"I did not want her to be alone."
"Good," Hana murmured, voice a lullaby. "Soon you will learn another truth — you don't have to suffer alone either."
I didn't answer.
I didn't know how to hold that idea yet.
Festival Dance — And Somewhere, Laughter
By midday, Yuna insisted she was fine.
"You are not," I said, ears narrowing suspiciously.
"I am mostly fine," she amended.
Which meant: absolutely not fine.
So Hana shoved tea into our hands and told us to go outside because sunlight can do what medicine cannot.
The festival dance was being practiced on the village green — children spinning ribbons like clumsy comets, elders clapping rhythm half a beat late, drums laughing at everyone.
Yuna nudged me. "We don't have to join. We can just watch."
"Do you want to?" I asked.
She considered. "…Yes."
Watching was safe. Watching was breathing near joy without touching it.
Then Lila spotted us.
"AKIRA! YUNA! COME! WE NEED MORE SPINNERS!"
"No we don't," said a boy holding five ribbons already.
"Yes we do!" Lila declared. "The bees voted."
I did not know bees had democratic structure.
Lila shoved a ribbon into my hand. I stared at it. It stared back, accusing me of not knowing how to joy.
Yuna took her ribbon and swayed a little in place. "Let's try together."
I copied her movements — slow, awkward, a little stiff.
My tail got tangled around my ankles.
I nearly fell.
Yuna caught my elbow, laughing — soft, not cruel.
Not laughing at me.
Laughing like joy leaked out and she could not catch it in time.
Something strange bubbled up in my chest.
It escaped my mouth before I could examine it.
A sound like a fragile bell, unsure but bright:
I laughed.
Not loud.
Barely more than breath wearing a smile.
But I felt it.
Warm.
Ridiculous.
Alive.
My cheeks burned. My ears flattened in confusion.
Yuna's eyes softened like dawn melting frost.
"That was beautiful," she whispered.
"Don't say that," I muttered.
"Why not?"
"I don't know."
I knew.
It was too big. Too gentle. Too close.
She bumped her shoulder to mine — quiet encouragement.
We spun ribbons a little longer, and when my lungs trembled with overwhelm, we slipped away, unnoticed in that kind of kindness that festivals give to shy hearts.
Touching Warm Laundry
On our way home, Hana's laundry line flapped, sheets billowing like friendly ghosts.
A breeze brushed one sheet against my face — warm from sun, smelling like soap and outdoor wind.
I froze.
I touched the fabric again. Slowly.
Warm.
Soft.
Light.
My fingers clenched into it instinctively, like I could anchor myself in that warmth.
"Feels good, right?" Yuna asked.
"…It feels safe."
"Yes," she said softly. "Soft things can be safe."
I let my forehead rest against the cloth for one second.
The world felt gentle.
I didn't run away from softness this time.
Memory Flash — The Lab's Whisper
Later, in the shade of an apple tree by the river, I blinked — and the world folded.
White walls.
Cold metal.
A drip bag humming.
Hands gloved.
A voice whispering — soft, terrible, almost fond:
"Subject-09. Perfect compliance. You don't need dreams."
My breath stopped.
I remembered the sensation of something metallic clipped to my wrist like destiny.
I remembered being praised for silence, not heart.
Then — Yuna's hand brushed my shoulder gently, grounding me.
Kaji whined, pressing close.
"You're here," she murmured. "Not there."
I blinked until the river returned.
The lab receded like a nightmare embarrassed to be seen in light.
"I hate them," I whispered. My voice shook — not with rage, but with grief for someone I used to be.
"You don't have to hate them to leave them behind," Yuna said softly.
"But you're allowed to."
Her hand did not push.
It hovered near mine — asking permission to exist close.
I lifted my fingers.
Hers slid between them, slow.
I didn't break.
Elder Kitsune — Roots of Flame and Memory
Evening neared when a fox appeared — real fox, silver-furred, eyes gold like evening bells.
It sat before us, tail flicking once, twice.
Then it spoke — not aloud, but inside my bones:
Follow.
Yuna startled. "Is that—"
"Yes," I whispered. I already knew.
We followed the fox into the forest, twilight painting us in shades of hush and maybe.
The trees thickened.
The world quieted.
And then — a clearing.
In the center sat an elder kitsune — fur white like snow-lit moon, nine tails curled around her like a throne of memory.
Eyes ancient, soft, merciless in the way truth is merciless.
"Little soul," she said, voice like wind through temple bells,
"why do you tremble at love?"
My chest cracked open.
"I am… learning," I whispered.
"Yes," she murmured. "You are a cup once filled with emptiness. Now you hold rivers and do not spill."
Her gaze moved to Yuna, who bowed with instinctive reverence.
"This wolf-heart child stays beside you."
"Yes," I breathed.
"Why?"
I looked at Yuna. She flushed.
The elder watched my silence like it was an answer of its own.
"Because she does not ask me to be anything but here."
The elder nodded.
Her nine tails flowed like water.
"In time, you will have ten," she said simply. "Not because of power, or violence, or destiny."
I swallowed. "Why?"
"Because you are choosing kindness while learning it."
Her voice softened like moss growing over old stone.
"That is the highest path."
A second ghost-tail flickered behind me — longer this time, almost visible.
Yuna sucked a breath. "Akira…"
"It will hurt sometimes," the elder continued. "Growth often feels like breaking until you understand it is not."
Then her eyes sharpened like knives wrapped in silk.
"And shadows follow you from your birth-world."
"Yes."
"They will come again."
"Yes."
"Will you run?"
"I ran once," I whispered. "I will not again."
"Good," the elder murmured. "Fear taught you to survive. Love will teach you to live."
The word love made my heartbeat lurch.
Yuna's hand inched closer.
She didn't say anything.
She didn't need to.
The elder's tails rustled like leaves in storm-touched wind.
"Go back. The river waits for your reflection. And the world waits for your choosing."
She faded like mist. The fox guide bowed, then vanished into evening.
I stood trembling — not in fear, but in becoming.
When Fever Is Kindness Leaving Slowly
Back at the house, Yuna swayed again. Hana pressed a cool cloth to her head.
"You pushed yourself too hard," Hana murmured.
"I didn't want to let anyone down."
"There is no virtue in giving until you vanish," Hana scolded gently. "If you disappear, who will teach the world gentleness?"
I sat beside Yuna, tail curled protectively around my legs.
Yuna's eyes fluttered open — tired, warm, grateful.
"I'm okay," she whispered.
"You don't have to be," I whispered back.
Her lips trembled.
Something inside her softened, as if permission to rest was heavier than any burden she had carried.
I dipped a cloth in cool water and pressed it to her forehead.
She closed her eyes.
"Your hands are gentle," she murmured.
"They learned from yours."
Yuna blushed — fever-red, but also something else.
Something like pride and confusion braided together.
I sat awake until her breathing steadied.
Writing a New Truth
Later, at the hearth, Hana hummed a lullaby older than maps.
I sat with parchment again. Ink on fingers. Heart soft from too much feeling.
I wrote:
Love is not a command. It is a choice that waits.
I do not know it yet.
But something in me is learning the shape of it.
A tear found the paper.
I did not wipe it away.
The Shadow Speaks
Outside — a rustle.
Not wind.
I stood by the window.
Silver moonlight.
Stillness too careful to be night's.
The shadow stood again, shape cut from memory — sterile, cold, wrong.
This time it spoke.
A voice like metal tasting blood:
"Subject-09."
I did not flinch.
"I am not yours," I said softly.
The shadow tilted its head.
"We will retrieve you."
"No," I whispered. "You lost me the moment I learned to feel."
Kaji growled, low thunder.
Hana's hand rested on my back — quiet strength.
The shadow faded like a mistake being erased.
My heart pounded.
But I did not run.
I did not break.
I whispered to the window:
"I choose to stay."