Morning petals fell like soft thoughts.
I woke before light finished arriving, not startled, but aware—like my bones and the air had agreed on a time without discussing it aloud. My ears twitched to the sound of small spoons and Hana humming a tune that felt older than sunlight.
Yuna slept half-curled, one arm reaching slightly toward me even in dreams, fingers loose as if holding something gentle. Kaji sprawled on his back, paws in the air, dignity surrendered to comfort.
I slipped from the blanket.
The house didn't flinch. It breathed.
Hana's kitchen whispered warmth. Fire murmured low, bread swelled in a covered bowl, herbs perfumed the corners. The moment I entered, Hana's eyes lifted—calm, knowing eyes that did not pry but invited truth if it wanted to walk.
"You rise early," she said.
"I heard the song," I said quietly.
She smiled a small sideways smile, the kind that reveals nothing but tells you she sees much.
"It's how mornings forgive the nights."
Forgive.
The word landed like a stone in water—rippling quietly, disappearing slowly.
She slid a wooden cup toward me. Steam curled. I sniffed: mint, warmth, something floral. Safety in liquid form.
"Tell me," she said gently, stirring the dough, "what does today feel like?"
My ears lowered in thought. I searched inside—a place that still sometimes looked like a lab corridor and sometimes like moss.
"…Uncertain," I said. Then, after a breath, "And… not frightening."
"Uncertainty without fear," Hana nodded. "A sign something is shifting inside you."
I held the cup like a fragile truth. The steam kissed my face.
"Is that good?" I whispered.
She kneeded dough like she was convincing the future to rise properly. "Growth often looks like trembling."
I traced the rim of the cup. "Yesterday, I—"
The memory pressed unsteady inside me.
The vision of the fox. The second tail's ghost. The cry in the grove. The fear of Yuna cracking herself open to heal.
Hana's voice was soft as kneaded flour. "You don't owe me the words yet. Knowing they exist is enough."
Something loosened in my throat. Not quite tears. The space before tears. The space childhood was supposed to live in.
"Do you believe," I asked quietly, "that a person can become… more than they were made to be?"
Hana dusted flour from her palms, as though brushing off doubt. "I believe becoming is a rebellion."
I swallowed. The tea tasted like a promise kept quietly. "I want to become."
"Then you will," she said simply, as if the world never argued with wanting.
Her hand brushed my cheek. Only for a moment. Warm. Permission—not command.
"And you will not do it alone."
Yuna emerged with hair unbrushed and eyes sleepy, rubbing one with the heel of her palm like a wolf pup waking in sunlight. She saw me and brightened, not like light turning on—like light remembering it existed.
"Morning, Akira."
Her voice had a rasp that made my ears flick in a way I didn't understand. My tail swayed once, shy traitor.
"You slept," she said. "That's good."
"You slept too," I observed.
She stretched, yawned wide. "I do that sometimes."
Hana slid bowls across the table. Bread warm enough to steam the air. Eggs scrambled with herbs. Berries stained with dew.
We ate. I watched Yuna fight a piece of bread that stuck to her teeth. She glared at it like a rival. It finally surrendered. She looked triumphant over dough.
I felt… warmth. Silly. Soft.
My mouth twitched.
A near-smile.
Yuna saw, and her own grin bloomed like a flower seeing sun.
Not words.
Recognition.
We left for the academy, but today we took the river route.
Mist clung low. Sun peered through branches. Yuna's pack bounced lightly on her shoulder. Kaji trotted ahead with the proud burden of knowing the way, tail high like a small banner of wolfish importance.
The river soon appeared, whispering secrets against stone. Water leapt over rocks, glittering as if it had borrowed dawn to wear for play.
Yuna knelt. "Wash your face here," she said. "Forest water wakes you gently."
I knelt beside her. My reflection shivered. New shape. Fox ears twitching. Eyes darker than deep soil, but not empty—holding something I couldn't name yet.
Tentatively, I cupped water and lifted it. Cold kissed my skin. Not shock. Invitation.
Yuna splashed her own cheeks and yelped. "I always forget it bites."
"You told me it wakes gently," I said.
"It lies to me every time." She glared at the river. The river glittered, unrepentant.
Kaji drank with steady gulps. I watched, mimicking his calm. I dipped my fingers again and brushed my cheek, slow, measured. My ears flicked with the chill.
Something shifted.
Not outside. Inside. The world didn't change. The world allowed me to.
A faint melody brushed my awareness, like bells underwater again—then gone. My tail stirred, brushing a fern. A shiver of silver flickered at its base—then quieted, shy or tired or just thinking about becoming.
Yuna noticed. Of course she did.
"You felt it, right?"
"Yes."
"What did it feel like?"
I searched the inner place, the one growing moss where glass once lived.
"…Like the river remembers the moon."
Yuna blinked. Then breathed out like being seen by someone else's words. "That's… beautiful."
I didn't know beautiful could be spoken about something I said. It prickled behind my eyes.
"I didn't mean to say it," I whispered.
"Sometimes truth doesn't wait for permission."
Her sleeve brushed mine.
Not pushing.
Choosing to be near.
When we reached the academy courtyard, voices floated like birdsong. Children chasing wooden rings. A girl teaching a squirrel to sit. Elyren reading quietly with sunlight caught in her hair-bells. Lila trying to convince bees not to follow her into class.
"School is loud," I murmured.
"Then you can take breaks," Yuna replied. "You don't have to swallow the world at once."
"Yesterday, you said people pretend to know how to be people."
"I did."
"Do you pretend?"
Yuna paused, considering.
"Yes," she said. "But only until I learn the real way. Pretending is how I practice becoming real."
I stored the sentence somewhere precious.
Maybe I could pretend too.
Not to lie, but to reach.
Practice becoming real.
We entered the classroom. Master Iri smiled warmly.
"Today," she said, "we practice grounding. Magic answers the rooted."
She held up a smooth river stone. "Hold something solid, and breathe until its story touches yours."
Students chose stones, leaves, pieces of wood. Yuna handed me a pebble she found by my foot—rounded, speckled, as old as river patience.
I held it. Cold first. Then warmth. Then nothing, and then—
A remembering.
Water smoothing anger.
Time wearing corners until only gentleness remained.
Stillness shaped by motion.
My body exhaled without asking me.
Something loosened.
But magic is rarely gentle twice in a row.
A sudden CRACK! echoed in the hall—someone outside dropping a bucket. Several students yelped or laughed.
I did not. My heart slammed. Instinct took me.
I bolted to the wall—silent, sharp, breath clenched. My ears flattened. I scanned doors, windows, ceiling, every angle of escape. My vision tunneled.
Someone approached—footsteps, too close—
Not safe. Not safe—
But a sleeve brushed mine. Light, careful.
"Akira?"
Yuna's voice. Soft. Not asking for calm—offering hers.
"I—" My throat locked. The room blurred. The pebble fell, rolled. My tail shook without my consent.
Master Iri approached, movements slow as dusk. "Child," she murmured, "you are not in the place you were taught to fear."
I couldn't speak. Panic sat in my lungs, selfish, heavy.
Kaji pressed into my leg. Warm fur. Solid life.
Breathe, someone whispered.
Yuna's breath synced with mine—she exhaled slow so my body remembered how.
I followed the rhythm.
Shaking eased.
Sight widened.
World returned one edge at a time.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
Yuna shook her head. "Don't apologize for surviving."
Master Iri crouched so her eyes met mine gently. "When a rabbit stops running, it is not weakness. It is trust." She touched the pebble, returning it to my hand. "This stone has felt the river's rage. It still rests."
I closed my fingers around it. It anchored like a warm truth.
"May I stay?" I asked.
Master Iri nodded. "You may always rest here. Learning is not war."
At lunch, I sat beneath a maple. Yuna sat beside me. She didn't speak first. She waited. Silence sat between us like a friendly shadow.
"My body remembers danger louder than safety," I finally whispered.
"That's how bodies keep going," Yuna said. "Even when souls would rather sleep."
"Will it stop?"
"No," she said honestly. "But it will get quieter when it trusts the quiet."
I looked at my hands. Not lab hands. Not clean, not sterile. Small scratches from ferns. Berry stain from Lila's gift. Life lived enough to leave marks.
"Kaji knew too," I said softly.
"He always knows," Yuna replied, scratching his ears. "Instinct respects instinct."
I glanced away, voice small. "I was afraid you would be angry."
"Akira," she said, voice nearly breaking with softness, "why would I be angry at someone fighting to breathe?"
I swallowed hard. A tear tried to be born. I didn't stop it this time. It wasn't dramatic. It was a small bead of truth leaving its hiding place.
Yuna didn't wipe it. She let it fall, like respecting gravity meant respecting me.
Lila ran up waving a flower crown. "I made this for you! It's got clover and river daisies and one thing that might be a weed but it looked hopeful."
She put it on my head before I could protest. I froze, expecting weight like a shackle. Instead—lightness. Fragrance. Something childlike, sacred, ridiculous.
Yuna choked a laugh. Not mocking. Delighted.
"You look like the forest picked you," she said.
I touched the flowers. My tail curled shyly.
"…Is that good?"
"It's perfect."
We walked home when lessons ended, slower this time. The river hummed. Birds practiced evening songs. A fox in the underbrush flicked its tail at me—a greeting or a dare or both. My ears pricked without fear this time.
Yuna walked close but not crowding. Our sleeves brushed often. Not by accident.
She glanced at me. "You know…"
"Yes?"
"You don't have to be strong every day."
"I don't?"
"You already survived. That's enough strength to last years."
Something cracked quietly inside me—not breaking. Opening. Like ice learning how to be water.
"…Thank you," I whispered.
She bumped my shoulder. "Tomorrow we practice illusions again. I want to see if you can mirror sunlight on water."
I blinked. "Why water?"
"Because rivers remember the moon," she said simply.
My breath paused—surprised she had echoed my earlier words.
No—mirrored them.
And I realized then:
Yuna didn't just heal wounds.
She reflected people back to themselves
until they learned to see their own shape.
We reached Hana's house. Warm light spilled like spilled milk and comfort. Hana asked no questions. She only handed me a slice of bread with honey.
"Eat," she said. "Healing burns energy."
I bit. Sweetness soothed like balm.
And that night, when sleep came—it did not bring the lab first.
It brought river sound.
Soft bells.
A fox tail flickering like first moonlight.
A second ghost-tail shimmering faint, patient, not rushing.
Becoming is slow.
Slow like rivers teach stone.
Slow like dawn decides darkness doesn't get to stay forever.
I turned under the blanket. Yuna slept close enough to hear her breathing.
My hand reached without thought. Not touching. Near.
Not alone.
The night didn't feel like fear.
It felt like waiting for bloom.
And I slept.