Rain poured down in sheets, heavy and unrelenting.
It drummed against the trees in a steady roar—thousands of droplets striking leaves, branches, and sodden earth. It slapped against Luna's shoulders, plastering her thin dress to her skin, soaking through to her bones. Each step was a struggle—her bare feet sank into the mud with a sickening squelch, the earth gripping her ankles like hands.
The path was nearly invisible. A blur of shadows, rain, and grey.
Ahead of her, just barely, a figure moved—dark and steady.
> "Luwi!" she shouted, her voice nearly lost in the storm.
For a heartbeat, she thought he hadn't heard. But then—
> "Yes, Luna," came his voice. Soft as a whisper, but somehow clear, threading through the storm like a note in a song only she could hear.
> "Are you sure about the road?" she called, trying to shield her eyes. "I can't see anything! The rain's too strong."
> "Yes," he said simply. "This is the right path."
> "How can you be sure? I can barely see the ground, let alone where we're going."
There was a pause before his answer came, light and strange.
> "I don't want to see the road. I'm following the threads."
> "Threads?" Luna echoed, her voice confused, breath catching in her throat.
> "Yes," Luwi replied, calm as ever. "The threads that connect us... the ones weaving the tapestry."
She stumbled over a tree root hidden in the mud. Her braid clung to her neck like a rope, her limbs shaking from the cold.
> "Sometimes," she muttered, "I really don't understand what you're saying, Luwi."
She could just make out his silhouette as he turned slightly, mischief dancing even in the rain-soaked air.
> "Of course you don't," he teased. "I'm smarter than a dumb pillowcase like you."
> "I'm not a pillowcase," she snapped, weakly—but there was the faintest smile hiding in her voice.
> "You're right," he said, serious again. "You're much softer."
The rain pelted around them harder now, wind howling through the pine trees. A branch creaked above, swaying dangerously.
> "You know a lot," she said, trying to keep up.
> "I do," Luwi said lightly.
"I know where the wind will blow before it decides to turn.
I know where the treasure is buried beneath the roots of the oldest pine.
I know who planted the red flowers in your backyard."
His voice grew quieter, nearly lost to the storm.
> "I know the sound your aunt makes when she cries alone at night."
Luna stopped in her tracks. Her breath caught, but—
The wind howled, loud and cruel, and she hadn't heard him clearly.
> "What?" she called out.
A beat of silence.
Then Luwi's voice returned, louder this time, cheerful:
> "I said we're close!"
And he kept walking, unbothered by the storm.
Luna followed, still uncertain, heart pounding harder than before.
Behind them, the forest sighed.
And somewhere beneath the roar of the rain, something else watched.
----
The rain had turned heavy—a cold, relentless curtain pouring from a sky bruised purple and grey. Each drop struck the earth with sharp, insistent rhythm, a thousand tiny drummers on leaves and stone. The wind wept through the trees in low moans, coiling around trunks like something lost.
Luna trudged forward, her small form shivering beneath the weight of her soaked yellow dress. Her braids, once neat, clung in limp threads down her back. Mud sucked at her bare feet, each step a struggle, her prints swallowed behind her almost as quickly as they formed.
Beside her, Luwi padded through the storm, his dark shape nearly one with the shadows. Rain slid off his sleek fur. Only his golden eyes gleamed—two soft lanterns cutting the haze.
His voice floated through the storm, steady and quiet, like a thread through the roar:
> "Do you remember the little garden you used to play in, Luna? The one with the red flowers and the crooked fence?"
Luna blinked against the rain. Her breath hitched.
A memory stirred—petals waving like tiny hands, the earth warm beneath her fingers, her mother's voice humming beside her.
> "I remember," she whispered.
It was barely a breath, but Luwi heard.
> "And the swing," he added, almost smiling. "Hanging from that old, stubborn tree."
Luna's lips trembled.
> "I used to swing so high... it felt like flying."
The storm pressed closer, as though listening. The wind tugged at her dress like a warning, the trees groaning beneath its weight.
They walked on. The world blurred—rain, leaves, the silver wash of water flowing over roots and stones.
Luna slowed. Her heart beat harder. Something in the air shifted.
A tension.
A thread pulled tight.
She looked up.
Before them, the trees thinned. A rocky slope stretched ahead, slick and jagged, rising beneath the shadowed sky.
> "This…" she murmured, breath catching. "This feels familiar."
The wind howled, as if echoing her thought. It wrapped around them like a voice not quite speaking. The rain grew harsher, louder—like the storm itself knew what was coming.
> "It's near," Luna breathed. "It's near… my home."
Without waiting, she ran.
Her feet slipped on the wet stones, but she didn't stop. Her breath came fast, heart thudding like a fist against glass. Her braid streamed behind her, a wet black ribbon trailing her name into the storm.
> "Careful, Luna," Luwi called, teasing gently, his voice warm even as thunder rolled.
"You might fall."
But she was already ahead, chasing the scent of salt air, the flicker of memory, the tug in her chest that said there, there—
And then she saw it.
Her home.
It rose like a ghost from the storm—dark, quiet, weather-worn. The roof sagged at the edges, the shutters hung crooked, the door bowed like an old spine. The windows were black. No smoke curled from the chimney.
But it was there.
Luna's breath caught. She stumbled to a stop, standing in the rain as it poured down her cheeks, mixing with tears she didn't realise had returned.
Luwi stepped beside her. His golden eyes flicked from the house to her face, his expression unreadable, solemn beneath the storm's glow.
> "You've found it, little miss," he said softly.