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Chapter 7 - Chapter 7: The Strom

The storm crept closer, slow and heavy, like a great beast stalking the land.

Clouds churned above them, a mass of bruised purples and deep greys, as if the sky itself had been wounded. Wind howled through the forest's edge, tearing at the trees until their branches bent like brittle bones. Rain fell in sharp sheets, slicing the world into fragments of cold and motion.

Luna stood at the edge of the pinewoods, soaked to the skin. Her yellow dress clung to her legs, her braid dark and heavy with rain. Before her, the crooked cabin waited—perched perilously at the cliff's edge, its outline warped in the storm's half-light.

The house was not as she remembered it.

It leaned to one side, as if exhausted. The wood had blackened with age and salt, the windows dull with grime, cracked like the surface of an old mirror. Rain dripped from the eaves in a steady rhythm, ticking like a heartbeat about to stop. The door hung crooked on rusted hinges, swinging slightly with every gust of wind.

The sea beyond was wild and white-lipped, waves smashing against the rocks with the fury of a forgotten god.

Luna stepped forward, her breath trembling.

> "It's... like no one's been here in years."

Her voice was barely a whisper against the wind.

Luwi padded to her side, the storm beading on his dark fur, golden eyes glowing low like embers. He didn't speak at first—just looked at the house, his tail flicking once, slowly.

> "Three years," he said at last, his voice soft, distant. "A lot can change in three years."

Luna's brow furrowed.

> "But it's only been three years. Right?"

Luwi gave her a faint smile—one of those quiet, sad ones that never reached his eyes.

> "Time doesn't walk straight in places like this. Sometimes it curls backwards. Sometimes it forgets to move at all."

Luna opened her mouth to ask what he meant—but then she heard it.

A faint sound rising from the cabin. Thin and trembling, like the last notes of a lullaby. A music box.

Her breath caught.

It was her mother's tune.

> "Luwi... do you hear that?"

Her voice cracked, wonder and grief bleeding through.

Luwi tilted his head.

> "I hear it."

But his ears did not twitch. His eyes did not shift. Only his tail moved—curling tightly around his paws.

And then—

A voice.

Soft and cracked like wind through reeds. It drifted from the doorway, barely louder than the storm, but clear enough to pierce the heart.

> "Luna... come home..."

It was her mother's voice. Almost.

But something was wrong. It rang hollow, stretched too thin. Not quite human. Not quite kind.

Luna took a step forward, boots squelching in the mud. Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear the wind anymore.

She turned back, the storm curling around her like a living thing, her soaked braid clinging to her cheek. The wind howled, but she only heard the music—the broken, beloved song from the music box calling her home.

Luwi stood still a few steps behind, rain trailing down his dark coat, sea blue eyes catching the grey light like twin candles.

> "Luwi…" she whispered, her voice fragile. "Aren't you coming?"

He didn't move.

> "This is where I leave you, little miss," he said quietly.

> "But…" Her brow furrowed. "You've been with me all this time…"

Luwi's gaze softened, his tail flicking gently behind him.

> "I walked with you through the forest. Through the threads. Through the places between the past and the waking. But this door—this one is yours alone."

Luna's throat tightened. She stepped toward him, rain pattering against her shoulders like falling glass.

> "Will I ever see you again?"

Luwi tilted his head, his smile the saddest and smallest she had ever seen.

> "Maybe. Maybe not. We don't promise those kinds of things."

He stepped closer, pressing his damp forehead gently to her knuckles. His fur was cold, but the touch was warm.

> "You were my favourite," he murmured. "Even when you talked too much. Even when you cried in your sleep."

Luna let out a soft breath that trembled like a sob.

> "You always made me feel less alone."

Luwi leaned back, eyes half-lidded.

> "And you always asked the questions no one wanted to answer."

He paused. Then, quieter:

> "Go on, little miss. The house won't wait forever."

Luna hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed the top of his head—light as rain.

> "Goodbye, Luwi."

Luwi blinked, and for a heartbeat, looked like he might follow.

But he only stepped back, his shadow merging with the storm.

> "Goodbye, Luna."

The music pulled her forward.

Its soft, broken melody echoed through the dark, open doorway—tinkling like shattered porcelain, familiar as breath. The air grew heavier with every step Luna took, thick with salt and memory.

She crossed the threshold.

The moment her foot touched the warped floorboards, the storm seemed to pause. The wind held its breath. The sea stopped its chant.

Inside, the house exhaled—a long, creaking sigh that echoed through the bones of the walls.

Rain streamed through the cracks in the roof. The wooden beams groaned above her. The floor beneath her feet felt too thin, too fragile, like a memory trying not to slip away.

She moved deeper inside.

There, in the middle of the ruined room, sat the music box—half-open, its spindle turning, slow and uneven. A flicker of gold inlay caught the dim light. Around it, ghost-silhouettes of forgotten furniture loomed: a tipped chair, a broken picture frame, shadows painted on the walls by time.

Luna reached out.

She never touched it.

The floor shifted.

A low, cracking sound echoed beneath her—deep, final. The entire room trembled as if the foundation itself remembered what it had buried.

Outside, Luwi sat in the mud at the edge of the cliff, the rain still dripping off his ears. He did not move. He did not cry out. His Sea blue eyes were half-lidded, his expression unreadable.

Distant.

Detached.

The house groaned once more—louder, longer—and then came the break.

Wood splits like bone. The door snapped backwards. The roof caved inward. With a rush of air and the terrible, splintering sound of collapse, the entire cabin buckled and slid forward—straight into the churning sea below.

The music box played one last note.

Then silence.

A roar of water swallowed everything. The sea surged over the cliff's edge, swallowing wood, stone, and memory in its frothing jaws. Thunder cracked like a judge's gavel overhead.

And then—stillness.

The cliff was bare. As if no house had ever stood there. No light. No melody. No Luna.

Luwi remained seated, his tail curled neatly around his paws.

His expression did not change.

Only his eyes followed the last ripples of the sea, the slow curling foam that danced where the house had been.

He blinked once, very slowly.

And finally whispered, voice barely heard above the wind:

> "Goodnight, little miss."

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