The forest thinned as they left the ruined town behind, giving way to a wide scar of broken asphalt.

  Once, it had been a freeway, carrying endless streams of engines and voices. Now it was a graveyard. Trees had torn through the cracked pavement, their roots curling up like veins. Saplings sprouted from old cars rusted into the earth. Vines swallowed street signs, their letters unreadable. In places, the road dipped into ponds where rainwater had gathered, reflecting only gray sky.

  The family moved carefully along its spine, packs swaying with each step, and he kept his axe within reach. The woman carried the boy’s hand, though he often slipped free, darting ahead to poke at a moss-covered guardrail or peer through the broken windshield of a convulsed truck.

  Kira walked a few paces behind. Her cloak hung low, hood shadowing her face. The fabric brushed the tips of her ears, but the twitch was hard to hide. She could feel them flick at every sound: the creak of branches, the caw of crows overhead. Her tail pressed uncomfortably against the heavy folds of cloth, swaying despite her effort to still it.

  The boy kept glancing back. Sometimes his gaze lingered too long, his brows furrowing as if he noticed the way her hood bulged, the way her cloak shifted at her back. Each time, Kira lowered her head further, pretending indifference.

  The mother, weary but observant, noticed too. She said nothing, though her eyes carried questions she didn’t dare voice. The father kept his silence as well, but his grip on the axe handle seemed tighter whenever the boy drifted too close to her.

  The boy, however, was too young to keep suspicion sharp. Curiosity burned brighter. At one point, he slowed his steps until he was beside her. He tilted his head, watching the hem of her hood.

  “Your ears move,” he said simply.

  Kira froze. The sound of crows overhead seemed louder in the pause that followed.

  “…Do they?” Her voice was smooth, but her claws bit the wood of her scythe’s shaft where she gripped it.

  The boy nodded. “Like a dog’s. Or a wolf’s.”

  His mother hissed his name, pulling him gently back toward her side. But he looked up at Kira again, wooden bear clutched in his small hand, eyes wide with the innocence of a child asking about the obvious.

  Kira forced a small smile, the mask tugging at her lips. “I am the ears of the forest,” she said. “Sometimes the old trees twitch when I hear too much.”

  The boy seemed satisfied with that, nodding as though she’d explained some secret magic. His mother shot Kira a wary glance, but said nothing.

  The road stretched ahead, winding through a corridor of pines. The mountain loomed distant on the horizon, its peak ghostly in the pale light.

  Kira walked on, her mask intact, though her ears burned beneath the hood.

  The sun hung pale and cold above the trees when the family finally stopped.

  A rusted guardrail curved away into brush, where a trickle of water cut through the cracked asphalt, spilling down into a shallow creek. Moss clung to the edges of the broken road, softening the ruin. Birds perched overhead on sagging power lines, watching as the travelers set down their packs.

  The boy rushed to the stream first, kneeling to cup water into his hands. His mother caught up quickly, pulling him back with a stern shake of her head. She produced a small pot from her pack, she filled it carefully from a canteen, pouring it through a cloth filter. She set the pot down next to the man getting it ready to boil. The man crouched beside them, scanning the treeline as he chewed dried strips of meat.

  Kira lingered at the edge, her cloak still drawn close. She hadn’t sat with anyone in… years, perhaps longer. Hunger gnawed faintly, but not for food. She forced it down, instead lowering herself onto a fallen slab of road near the family.

  The boy glanced at her, grinning through chapped lips. “You can sit closer. We don’t bite.”

  Kira blinked at him, a slow, measured tilt of her head. “Neither do I,” she said, letting the faintest trace of humor slip into her voice.

  The mother’s eyes softened despite herself, though her hands still worked with careful precision, dividing bread into three smaller pieces. After a long pause, she extended one to Kira.

  “Here. You saved my son and since we are traveling together. It’s only right.”

  Kira hesitated, staring at the offering. Her hands—clawed, sharp, wrong—curled in her lap before she reached out slowly, wrapping the bread in her sleeve so her fingers would not be seen. She nodded once, a gesture stiff but genuine. “Thank you.”

  The boy shuffled closer, chewing noisily on his share. Between bites, he looked up at her. “What’s your name?”

  Names had always been dangerous things. Too many people had once spoken hers in fear, in whispers, in curses. But the boy’s question carried only innocence and curiosity.

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  “…Kira,” she said at last.

  The boy repeated it, tasting the syllables. “Kira.” He grinned. “I’m Elias.”

  She let the name settle in her chest, unfamiliar but warm. “Elias,” she echoed softly, as if committing it to memory.

  The man finally spoke, voice rough with caution. “You said you were a wanderer. How long have you been alone?”

  Kira’s ears twitched beneath her hood. She let her gaze drift toward the broken freeway, the weeds swaying in the cold breeze. Her eyes softened as she tried to remember the last time she wasn’t alone. “Too long,” she murmured. Then, forcing herself back into the mask, she added: “Long enough to know how to keep quiet. How to survive.”

  The woman studied her. Something unspoken passed between them—gratitude mixed with wariness. But the boy broke the silence again, smiling up at her with crumbs stuck to his chin.

  “Then you’ll keep us safe, right? On the road?”

  Kira froze, the bread heavy in her hand. The truth rose sharp in her throat—that she was no guardian, that everything she touched withered. But the boy’s eyes were steady, trusting, waiting.

  She forced herself to smile, small and almost fragile. “I’ll try,”

  The boy seemed satisfied. He leaned against her cloak as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  And for the first time in years, Kira chewed bread not for sustenance, but to pretend—to play at being human, if only for a fleeting moment on a ruined road.

  They ate in silence for a while, the only sounds were the rustle of leaves, the soft rush of the stream, and the occasional caw of a crow overhead. The air was thin, crisp — it carried the smell of pine and rust.

  Kira found herself watching the boy. Elias had abandoned his bread halfway through to carve little scratches into his wooden bear with a pebble, humming softly as he worked. His mother fussed at him to finish eating, but he only grinned, taking a quick bite before returning to his project.

  Something in the scene stirred old echoes — a memory of small hands, of laughter that hadn’t been meant for her but had filled the air once all the same.

  Her claws tapped the wood of her scythe absently, then she reached beneath her cloak. Her fingers closed around a small pendant strung on a leather cord. The metal was dulled from years of wear, a trinket scavenged long ago from ruins she no longer remembered. She had kept it not for its worth but for its weight, the way it reminded her she was tethered to the world by something, however small.

  She turned it over in her palm once, twice. Then, slowly, she held it out.

  “Elias.”

  The boy looked up, curious. His mother stiffened, half-reaching to stop him, but the boy was already leaning forward.

  Kira lowered the pendant into his hands. The metal was cool against his skin, etched faintly with a symbol worn smooth — a sunburst, perhaps, or a flower.

  “What is it?” Elias asked, eyes wide.

  Kira’s voice was soft, almost uncertain. “A charm. For protection.”

  The boy’s small fingers closed around it, clutching it to his chest as though it were treasure. “You’re giving it to me?”

  Her ears twitched beneath her hood. “…Yes.”

  His mother opened her mouth to protest, then stopped. Whatever unease she felt, it faltered under the sight of her son’s joy.

  Elias slipped the cord over his head, the pendant settling awkwardly against his oversized coat. He held it up proudly for his parents to see. “Look! Kira says it’ll keep me safe!”

  The father gave a guarded nod, eyes narrowing slightly at Kira. But the woman exhaled, shoulders easing just a little.

  Elias looked back at Kira, smiling with a brightness that seemed out of place on such a ruined road. “Thank you. I’ll keep it forever.”

  Kira looked away, the mask trembling for just an instant. She did not tell him that nothing she touched ever stayed safe for long. Instead, she simply said:

  “Then it will serve its purpose.”

  And for a fleeting heartbeat, it felt almost true.

  By the time the sun began its slow descent, the ruined freeway had carried them into a stretch of forest where the trees leaned heavy over the road. Branches knotted above like a broken cathedral roof, their needles whispering in the wind.

  The family decided to camp near the shell of an old rest stop — little more than a concrete slab with weeds splitting its floor, but it offered some cover. They laid out blankets, gathered kindling, and coaxed a small fire to life. Its glow painted the cracked walls in amber, chasing back the long shadows of evening.

  Elias sat close to the flames, the pendant glinting faintly at his chest as he showed his wooden bear its “new home.” His parents spoke in hushed tones, rationing food, marking their course eastward on a scrap of faded map.

  And Kira drifted at the edges.

  She paced the perimeter of their camp, boots crunching softly on damp leaves. Her ears twitched beneath her hood at every sound — a snapping twig, a crow’s wingbeat overhead, the hush of wind moving through pines. She let her tail sway beneath her cloak, silent in rhythm with her breaths. Old instincts stirred: prowl, circle, guard.

  The mountain loomed distant but clear against the fading sky. Clouds gathered there, dark and swollen, rolling down its slopes like a tide. Their underbellies were bruised purple, shot through with streaks of sickly green as the setting sun bled against them.

  Storm.

  Kira’s gaze lingered on the horizon. The wind carried a metallic scent, sharp and unnatural. Her claws flexed against her palms. She did not trust storms — not in these lands, where the rain sometimes burned and lightning split trees into charcoal husks.

  Returning to the campfire, she crouched low. The boy looked up, eyes sleepy but still curious.

  “Will you sit with us, Kira?” he asked softly.

  She almost said no. The word pressed against her tongue, heavy with habit. But the storm’s growl rolled faintly across the mountain then, low and distant, and the boy’s pendant glimmered faintly in the firelight.

  “…For a little while,” she said.

  Elias smiled, satisfied. He leaned against her cloak as if she’d always belonged there. His mother glanced up at the sight, something conflicted flickering across her face, but she did not intervene.

  Above them, the first cold drops of rain began to fall through the branches.

  And in the distance, the storm swelled, crawling steadily closer from the mountain — as if the sky itself were preparing to test them.