Chapter Eleven: What Was Lost

  Following the stream deeper into the mountain, the passage narrows until my shoulder brushes one wall while water runs close enough on the other side that I have to watch every step on the slick stone. One misstep and I am going in. I have had enough involuntary swims to last a lifetime.

  Cold seeps into my bones with every step downward. My breath fogs, visible even in the darkness, and the damp tunic from washing earlier clings uncomfortably. I wrap my arms around myself. Should have waited for it to dry completely. Should have done a lot of things differently.

  Crescent moon and star. My fingers find the marks at regular intervals, carved deep enough to read by touch alone. Over and over. Breadcrumbs leading somewhere I cannot yet see.

  Fifty feet down and my calves are burning from the steady slope. Not steep enough to be dangerous, but relentless. Stone scrapes my ears when I forget to duck because the ceiling dropping lower with each step. My tail drags behind me, picking up moisture from the condensation on the rock.

  Water sounds different ahead. Less echo, more space opening up.

  I slow down, one hand trailing the wall while my enhanced vision picks out shapes before my mind catches up. Shelves. Stone walls curving away. More marks carved around a doorway.

  Stepping through carefully, the ceiling lifts enough to stand upright again. Maybe twenty feet across, roughly circular. Water runs along the left edge before disappearing into another passage directly opposite where I entered. But shelves line every wall from floor to ceiling, carved directly from the stone like everything else here. Not added later. Integrated into the architecture when they made the chamber.

  And they are full.

  "Okay." My voice bounces off stone, too loud. "Okay, this is good. This is useful."

  Ceramic jars sit in neat rows on the nearest shelf, wax seals still intact after who knows how many years. My wet foot wrappings squelch as I approach. Labels carved directly into the shelf edges beneath each jar. Symbols in that flowing script I keep seeing throughout the settlement above.

  The nearest jar is heavy, substantial. Wax cracks away in chunks when I pry at it with my claw, then the lid works loose.

  Dried something. Dark brown and shriveled. Roots maybe, or some kind of vegetable. Pieces range from finger-length to palm-sized, irregular shapes. A cautious sniff reveals an earthy, slightly sweet smell, a hint of something that might be medicinal.

  Completely unfamiliar.

  A tiny bite tells me the texture is tough, fibrous. Bitter with that same sweet undertone. Not poisonous. At least not immediately. But not anything my human memories recognize. Could be food. Could be medicine. Could be anything.

  "Great." Setting it aside, the next jar holds what looks like seeds or grains, small, dark, with a strange angular shape, almost triangular. Hard and uniform when I roll a few in my palm. Definitely processed somehow. Another contains preserved fruit maybe, but the color is all wrong. Deep purple, almost black, and the texture looks odd even through the glass.

  Working along the shelf systematically, opening jars, examining contents, smelling carefully. Some things I can place by category even without knowing the specific plant. Grain. Legumes. Possibly dried mushrooms. But whether they are edible for me, how to prepare them, what they are supposed to taste like, all of it remains a complete mystery.

  Shelf after shelf of carefully stored food that means absolutely nothing to me.

  Labels everywhere. Carved into stone, written on clay tablets propped beside certain sections, even marked directly on some larger jars in what looks like a different hand. Quality control markings? Instructions added later? All in that flowing script. Could be cooking instructions. Could be warnings about spoilage. Could be harvest dates.

  My tail whips behind me hard enough to knock against a jar. "Useless. This is completely useless if I do not know what any of it is."

  Keep searching. Work through the entire first wall methodically, opening jar after jar. There has to be something. Second wall brings more of the same. Dried things that might be edible. Preserved things in murky liquids. Powders that could be spices or poisons.

  Fourth shelf on the third wall, halfway back, this jar I recognize before opening it. The shape. The seal pattern. The size. Cracking it open, the smell confirms everything.

  Salt.

  Relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle. Just ordinary salt. The kind that tastes the same whether you are human or nekojin or something else entirely. Universal. Essential. Something I actually know how to use.

  Next to it sits another familiar jar. Same size, different seal pattern. Opening it carefully reveals dried fish. Strong smell but not rotten, that distinctive preserved-fish scent. This I can work with. Know how to reconstitute it, cook with it, how much salt it already contains.

  Further back on the same shelf, clay vessels revealing oil when opened. Golden-amber color, right consistency. Olive oil? Something else? Does not matter because oil is oil. For cooking, keeping things from drying out, maintaining leather.

  Another section holds what might be pemmican. Dried meat mixed with fat and berries, pressed into dense cakes and wrapped individually in waxed cloth. Wilderness survival shows from my old life, though the memory feels distant now, like someone else watched them. High calorie. Stores forever. Perfect for this.

  Pulling these jars aside, setting them on the floor where I can find them. Building a pile. Salt, two jars. Dried fish, four jars. Oil, three vessels. Pemmican, an entire shelf of individually wrapped portions. Stop counting at thirty. Some dried beans that look familiar enough. A jar of lentils maybe. Grain that could be wheat or barley, figure it out when cooking.

  Maybe twenty jars out of what must be three or four hundred.

  "Better than nothing." But my chest aches with it. All this food. All these supplies. Carefully preserved, organized, labeled. And most of it useless.

  I move deeper into the chamber and find another doorway in the back right corner. The passage beyond is shorter than the first, maybe thirty feet, opening quickly into another space. This one is more intimate. Maybe twelve feet across. Stone benches carved from the walls on three sides, each one worn smooth in the center where countless bodies sat over the years. A depression in the center floor with a natural chimney worn smooth by smoke, and I can see the soot stains on the stone even in the darkness. A fire pit for a rest stop.

  I run my hand along the nearest bench. The stone is cold under my palm, but I can feel how it has been shaped. Worn. Used. Not just carved smooth but polished by contact over years. Decades, maybe. How many nekojin sat on this exact spot? How many children? How many exhausted families taking a break during drills, or during the real thing?

  Three stone niches carved into the wall near the fire pit hold fire-starting supplies in sealed ceramic containers. I open one and find char cloth still good, flint and steel, even some kind of kindling wrapped in oiled cloth. Ready to use. Just add fire.

  I shake my head. Not useful right now. Not helpful to think about. Keep moving.

  The stream continues through this chamber, and I can hear it more than see it, running along the left wall through a carved channel before exiting through another passage. I follow it. My feet are getting cold. The wet leather wrappings have soaked through completely, and the stone is sapping heat from my pads with every step. My still-damp tunic clings and chafes. But I need to see how far this goes. Need to understand what I am dealing with.

  The passage curves left, following some natural contour in the rock. Maybe forty feet long. The ceiling rises gradually until I am walking through a space that feels almost generous. Then it opens suddenly into a much larger chamber.

  When I step through the doorway, my footsteps echo off distant walls. I pause at the threshold, letting my vision adjust to the increased space. The echo tells me this is big. Really big.

  Storage again. But different this time. Wooden crates stacked against the far wall, each one labeled with carved symbols I cannot read. Bundles wrapped in oiled cloth filling another section. And along the right wall, racks. Wooden racks holding clothing.

  I move closer.

  Rows and rows of clothing, all hanging from wooden pegs. Organized by size, by type, maybe by season. I pull one down and unfold it carefully. A tunic. Sized for nekojin, and I can tell immediately by the proportions. Longer in the body, shorter in the limbs than human proportions would require. The tail slit is already built in, reinforced with extra stitching. Heavy wool, well-made, with bone buttons down the front. Winter clothing.

  I move down the rack. Cloaks lined with fur. Thick breeches with reinforced knees. More tunics in different styles, some plain, some with decorative stitching along the hems. Smaller sizes that would fit children. I find a tiny tunic that would fit a nekojin maybe five or six years old. The stitching around the tail slit is decorated with little running cats. A mother made this. Spent extra time on the decoration even though it was just emergency storage. Made it beautiful because her child deserved beautiful things.

  I fold it carefully and put it back.

  Larger sizes. Adult clothing in various styles. Everything someone might need to survive a winter away from home. All organized by size, all waiting.

  "Okay, this I can use." I pull down several items that look like they will fit. The practical part of my brain is already cataloging. I need winter gear. This solves that problem. Good.

  But another part of my brain is counting. Counting the racks. Counting the sizes. Counting how many people this much clothing could outfit.

  Dozens. This is enough clothing for dozens of people. Maybe a hundred.

  I move to another section. Blankets folded in neat stacks. Thick felted wool that repels water. I lift one and it is heavy, well-made. I count forty blankets in one stack alone. Another stack beside it holds another forty. Another beyond that. I stop counting at two hundred.

  Tools on wooden shelves built against another wall. Knives with bone handles, each one wrapped carefully in oiled cloth. Fishing line wound on careful spools, and I count a dozen spools. Fire-starting kits in leather pouches, twenty of them. Cooking implements. Small pots. Wooden spoons. Water skins hanging from pegs, at least fifty of them. Rope coiled and stored. Needles and thread in sealed containers. Buttons. Patches for repairing clothes. Everything someone fleeing into the wilderness might need.

  All organized. All waiting. All covered in undisturbed dust.

  The stream continues through this chamber too, running along the left side through another carved channel. I follow it to the far side where another passage leads deeper. My mind is starting to work on the scale problem. This is too much. Too much for a small group. Too much for even a large family. This is provisions for a small army.

  The next passage is longer. Maybe sixty feet, with two turns in it. Following some natural feature in the rock. The stream stays with me the whole way, a constant whisper of water over stone.

  The chamber I enter next takes my breath away.

  It is huge. At least fifty feet long and maybe thirty wide. The ceiling rises into darkness above me, fifteen feet at least, maybe twenty. And it is full of sleeping pallets.

  Rows of them. Maybe fifty in this chamber alone. Simple wooden frames with leather stretched across for sleeping. Folded blankets on each one, placed precisely in the center. Small wooden chests at the foot of each bed, all the same size, probably for personal belongings.

  I walk through the rows slowly. My footsteps are the only sound besides the distant trickle of water. The dust has not been disturbed. Not a single pallet shows signs of use. The blankets are still folded in identical ways. The chests are all closed.

  I open one of the chests. Inside I find a wooden cup. A small knife. A fire-starting kit. A length of rope. A few personal items, a comb, a small mirror, a pouch for valuables. Basic supplies for one person. I check another chest. Same contents, slight variations. This one has a small sewing kit instead of the rope. Another has what might be a journal and a piece of charcoal for writing.

  Each sleeping space prepared for one person. Each chest stocked with essentials. Each blanket folded and waiting.

  Fifty people could have slept in this chamber. And beyond, I can see another passage. Another doorway.

  Through the next doorway, a slightly smaller dormitory. Maybe thirty pallets. Beyond that, forty more. Then more still.

  After the fourth dormitory chamber, I stop counting. Two hundred sleeping spaces? More? My mind cannot hold the numbers.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  "By the gods. How many people were supposed to come here?"

  Deliberate architecture. Organized. This is not some natural cave system they found and adapted. This is engineered, carved with purpose, planned down to the last detail. Multiple chambers for different purposes, all connected by passages that follow the stream. An underground town.

  Water is the key to the whole layout. Everything branches off the main stream channel. Fresh drinking water, irrigation for gardens near the entrance, cooling for storage, waste removal if needed. Which means I can navigate back by following the water upstream.

  Continuing deeper, a passage on the right opens into what looks like communal dining. Long stone tables carved from the floor itself. Stone stools. Counting quickly, eighty people could eat here at once. Maybe more if they squeezed in.

  The kitchen connects through another passage. Three massive stone hearths carved into the walls, each one with a chimney system venting somewhere. Up through the mountain, probably. Smoke would not be visible from a distance if they did it right. Work tables. Storage full of pots and pans stacked carefully, all sized for cooking large quantities. Stone sinks fed by the stream through carved channels.

  Years of work went into carving these chambers. Decades, probably. Planning. Resources. Skilled stonemasons working in secret.

  You do not build something like this for a few survivors.

  Everyone. They expected everyone.

  The entire settlement, however many people lived in those ruins above, hundreds or more, they expected all of them to flee here if things went bad.

  A large communal chamber opens up next, seating for gatherings, meetings, teaching. Stone benches carved in concentric circles facing a raised platform. An amphitheater. Maybe two hundred people could fit.

  Down a branching passage, a smaller chamber clearly meant for children. Small stools arranged in rows, and I mean small, sized for nekojin children, maybe waist-high to me. A raised platform where a teacher would stand. Stone tablets on shelves along one wall, each one carved with symbols and illustrations. Teaching materials. Lessons prepared and waiting.

  Running my hand along one of the small stools, the smooth stone worn by use speaks for itself. How many children learned to read on these stools? How many were supposed to continue their education down here if their city burned?

  Children living here. Being taught here. Surviving here. Growing up here if necessary.

  The medical chamber sits behind a doorway marked with crossed lines, circles at the ends. Stone tables for treating injuries, each one with channels carved around the edges for blood drainage. Shelves holding carefully wrapped bandages, some still white and clean. Sealed jars, and opening one carefully, the smell is sharp, medicinal. Herbs preserved in alcohol, maybe. Clay vessels labeled in that unreadable script. Surgical tools laid out in precise rows on stone shelves. Scalpels. Saws. Probes. Metal that has not rusted in the dry cave air.

  Injuries. Illness. Long-term medical care. Births, probably. Those look like obstetric tools.

  They planned for people to live here. Not just survive, but live. For months. Years, maybe.

  The stream continues ever deeper. I follow it through passage after passage. More storage chambers full of supplies I cannot identify. More dormitories with waiting pallets. A chamber with massive ceramic vessels that are clearly for water storage, filling them from the stream to ensure supply even if something happened to the stream flow. Each vessel is huge, maybe five feet tall. I count eight of them.

  The scale keeps growing. The preparations keep revealing themselves. This was not a refuge. This was a backup city. An underground city where an entire population could survive indefinitely.

  I find what might be a workshop. Tools on the walls. A forge that could be fired up, complete with anvil and bellows. Materials for making clothes. For repairing weapons. For working leather. For carpentry. Everything needed to maintain equipment and supplies for the long term.

  Another chamber holds what looks like military supplies. Armor on racks. Leather and metal pieces designed for nekojin proportions. Helmets with ear holes. Quivers full of arrows. Bows of different sizes. Spears with metal tips. Short swords designed for nekojin reach and strength. Training weapons too, wooden swords, blunted spears. All maintained, all ready.

  They expected to defend this place. Expected they might need to fight. Or maybe train the next generation while in hiding. Prepare for the day they could take their home back.

  More dormitories. I stop counting the sleeping pallets after three hundred. There are more chambers beyond. The stream keeps going, deeper into the mountain. This network is enormous. I have been walking for an hour at least. Maybe more. Hard to tell in the darkness.

  I take a side passage that does not follow the stream and find myself in what looks like a grain storage area. Massive stone bins built into the floor, each one sealed with a fitted stone lid. I try to lift one and can barely shift it. These are designed to be opened by multiple people working together. Clever, as it keeps pests out, maintains freshness. I manage to shift one lid enough to peer inside. Grain. Still good, protected from air and moisture. Enough grain in this one bin to feed twenty people for a month. Maybe more. And there are dozens of bins.

  I find a library after what must be the fifteenth or twentieth chamber. I have lost count of both chambers and turns. But this door is different, more elaborate marks carved around it. The crescent moon and star, but also other symbols. Protection marks, maybe. Or designations of importance. The door itself is heavier wood, reinforced with metal bands.

  I push it open. The hinges protest with a sound that echoes through the cave system, but the door swings inward smoothly.

  Books. Shelves and shelves of books. Scrolls. Tablets. All wrapped carefully in oiled cloth. All protected against time and moisture.

  The chamber is maybe thirty feet across and long, maybe fifty feet deep. Shelves line every wall, reaching from floor to ceiling. Stone reading tables in the center with carved stools. Windows cut high in the walls for ventilation, and they connect to some kind of air shaft system. The air in here is drier than the other chambers. Better for preservation.

  Approaching the nearest shelf, unwrapping one of the books carefully. The oiled cloth crackles as it peels back. Leather binding, stiff but intact. Opening it carefully.

  Pages covered in that same flowing script. Drawings in the margins, detailed illustrations of plants, each one carefully rendered with labels that mean nothing. The illustrations are beautiful. Professional. A medical or agricultural text. Instructions for growing things, processing things, using things.

  Completely meaningless.

  The next book has maps, at least the format is recognizable. Territories marked with careful borders. Rivers and mountains rendered in detail. Cities marked with symbols. But the labels? The territories? Which city is which? No idea.

  Another book feels different. Thicker pages, larger script. Stories maybe? The text is arranged differently, more white space between sections. Poetry? Illustrations show nekojin hunting, building, celebrating. Cultural records.

  Cannot read any of it.

  A scroll of beautiful calligraphy that means nothing.

  A tablet of carved symbols, carefully preserved. Historical records, maybe. But it is useless. All of it.

  Sinking onto one of the stone reading stools, a book open in my lap. My fingers trace the letters. Beautiful. Precise and flowing at the same time. Consistent in a way that shows maturity, a writing system developed over generations, refined and standardized. Diacritical marks above some letters. Punctuation. Grammar. Centuries of development.

  And it might as well be decorative patterns.

  "This should help me." Closing the book carefully, my voice echoes slightly. "These books could tell me which foods are edible. How to prepare them. What medicines to use. But I cannot read them."

  Wrapping the book back in its oiled cloth, placing it on the shelf. Gentle movements despite the frustration. This deserves respect even if it is useless to me.

  Moving through the library slowly, examining the organization. Shelves labeled with carved symbols, probably subject matter. One section holds larger books. Another only scrolls. Another section has tablets instead of bound volumes. Color-coded leather binding might indicate different subjects, brown for medical, green for agricultural, red for historical.

  Hundreds of books. Maybe a thousand. An entire civilization's knowledge, carefully preserved, waiting for someone who could read it.

  In the back corner, I find something different. A large stone table with a massive book chained to it. The kind of book you do not move. The kind meant to stay in one place forever. The chain is iron, heavy, bolted into the stone table.

  I approach it carefully. The cover is wooden, reinforced with metal corner pieces. Beautiful scrollwork carved into the wood. I open it gently.

  The pages are thicker than the others. Vellum, maybe. The script is larger, more formal. And the first page has an illustration. A nekojin family, mother, father, three children. Drawn with incredible skill. Every detail perfect. The children's ages different, one teenage, one middle childhood, one very young. Below the illustration, text I cannot read. Names, probably. Dates. Family history.

  I turn the page carefully. Another family. Two parents, four children. Another illustration, another block of text.

  Another page. Another family.

  This is a record book. A memorial. Names and dates and families. The history of this settlement written down so it would not be forgotten.

  I turn pages slowly. Hundreds of families. Thousands of individuals. Each one illustrated, each one named. Each one important enough to record. This must have taken years to compile. Someone's life work.

  Cannot read a single name.

  Closing it gently, stepping back. My tail coils around my leg on its own.

  Leaving the library, closing the door carefully behind me. The marks on the frame glow faintly. Crescent moon and star. Protection. Importance. Preservation.

  Following the stream deeper, almost mechanical now. Not thinking about the library. About all that inaccessible knowledge.

  More chambers. More discoveries. Religious items in one room, carved idols, ceremonial clothing, incense in sealed containers that still smells strong. Prayer beads. Whatever gods these people worshipped, they wanted to keep worshipping them down here.

  Musical instruments fill another chamber. Flutes. Drums. String instruments with unfamiliar shapes. Protected in cases, preserved with oil.

  Looms for weaving in one space. Potter's wheels and clay in another.

  Children's toys. Carved wooden animals, dolls with sewn clothes, balls made of stitched leather, story books with pictures. Packed with the same care as medical supplies and weapons.

  Every chamber the same pattern. Meticulous preparation. Organized storage. Supplies for hundreds. Maybe thousands.

  And everywhere, undisturbed dust.

  Something has been building in the back of my mind as I walk. Something about the perfection of it all. The untouched nature.

  Nothing has been moved. Nothing has been used. Nothing has been disturbed.

  Sleeping pallets still made. Blankets still folded. Food jars still sealed. Weapons still racked. Medical supplies still organized. Books still wrapped.

  Everything in its original position. Waiting.

  No one came here.

  Standing in the middle of another dormitory chamber, the tenth or twelfth, the truth settles like a stone in my gut.

  They built this entire underground city. Carved it from living rock over decades. Prepared it for hundreds, maybe a thousand. Stocked it with everything. Created escape routes marked with glowing symbols only nekojin could see. Taught people the routes, drilled evacuations, made sure everyone knew the way.

  And when the worst happened, no one made it.

  Not a single person.

  Walking back through the chambers with new eyes. Looking for any sign, any indication that someone, anyone, made it this far.

  Nothing. Dust on the sleeping pallets undisturbed. Food jars in perfect rows. Weapons never drawn. Medical supplies never opened. Toys never played with. Instruments never played. Books never read.

  Zero people came here. Zero.

  Making my way back to the entrance, following the stream upstream. Easier going back because the route is familiar now. Turn here, then straight, then left, then through the kitchen, then the first storage chamber, then up the entrance passage.

  The entrance is thirty feet up an oak tree to reach the cave mouth. Requires nekojin agility. Claws for grip. Ability to see handholds in the dark. Strength and skill and practice.

  Humans could not easily get up there. Perfect defensive position.

  Which means the nekojin never reached the forest. Cut off in the city. Captured on the roads. Killed before they could run.

  The burned buildings above. Everything systematically destroyed. The complete absence of bodies, taken away, probably. Enslaved or killed somewhere else. Trophy collections. Proof of extermination.

  They never had a chance to flee. Never made it to the forest where glowing marks would guide them. Never saw the trail that led here. Never knew if the cave refuge was even real or just a contingency plan that was never completed.

  But it was completed. It was ready. Everything prepared.

  And nobody came.

  This entire place, this massive preparation, this underground city, these hundreds of sleeping pallets and stored supplies and carefully preserved books, built for people who died before they could use it.

  A refuge that never gave refuge.

  The weight of it all settles over me as I stand in the last chamber, surrounded by military supplies that were never used. Weapons that never defended anyone. Armor that never took a blow. Training equipment that never helped young nekojin learn to fight.

  I have walked through an underground city built for hundreds, maybe thousands, of refugees who never came.

  The builders knew what was coming. They prepared for the worst with meticulous care, stockpiling everything a population would need to survive underground for years. Food. Water. Shelter. Medicine. Education for the children. Workshops for the craftsmen. A hospital for the sick and injured. Military supplies for those who would defend the refuge.

  They thought of everything. Planned for everything. Prepared for everything.

  Except for whatever happened that prevented anyone from reaching safety.

  I make my way back through the passages, following the stream upward toward the entrance. My feet know the path now, each turn and junction mapped in my memory. The marks glow softly on the walls, crescent moon and star guiding me through the darkness. They were meant to lead refugees to safety. Now they lead only me.

  The first storage chamber feels different when I return to it. I select what I need with more respect than I showed before. Salt for preserving meat. Dried fish for protein. Pemmican for energy. Oil for cooking. Grain and lentils and dried beans for sustenance. A jar of crystallized honey that will last practically forever. I take only what I can carry, what I will use. The rest stays on the shelves, waiting for refugees who will never come.

  From the clothing storage, I take what I already selected during my exploration. The winter gear fits well enough. The hunting clothes are practical. The boots protect my feet without sacrificing sensitivity.

  I add medical supplies to my collection. Bandages. Sealed jars of something that smells medicinal. Surgical needles and thread that will work for wounds or for mending clothes. A small kit of tools that might be useful for treating injuries. I do not know how to use most of it, but I can learn. I have nothing but time now.

  The journey back to my shelter in the tree hollow takes multiple trips. Each load is heavy, and the climb up and down the massive oak burns energy I barely have. By the third trip, my arms shake with exhaustion. By the fourth, I am moving on pure stubbornness, refusing to stop until everything is safely stored.

  The sun has set by the time I finish. The forest has gone dark around me, the sounds of day giving way to the different music of night. Owls calling. Small creatures rustling in the underbrush. The wind moving through branches high above.

  I arrange my supplies in the tree hollow with careful attention to organization. Food stored where it will stay dry. Clothing folded and stacked. Medical supplies within easy reach. Weapons positioned so I can grab them quickly if something threatens my shelter.

  The hunting gear I lay out separately, ready for tomorrow. The camouflage clothing. The soft leather boots. The knife with its well-worn handle. The bow and quiver of arrows that I will need to learn to use.

  Tomorrow begins a new phase. Not running and hiding. Building something sustainable.

  The refuge below me will be my supply depot, my backup, my insurance against starvation or disaster.

  I wrap myself in one of the thick wool blankets from the refuge, the finest thing I have felt against my fur since this nightmare began. The weight is comforting in a way I did not expect. Solid. Real. Present.

  Below me, in the darkness of the mountain, an empty city waits.

  I am not their people. I do not know who I was before the transformation, do not know if I have any connection to the nekojin who built this place. The void where my memories should be offers no answers.

  But I will use what they built. Honor their preparation by surviving.

  The marks glow faintly on the stones of the entrance below, visible even from my perch in the tree. Crescent moon and star.

  My hand finds the pendant, and I trace its curves in the darkness. The familiar grooves. The worn edges. The small chip on the moon's lower curve.

  I was someone before I woke in that inn. Someone who wore this pendant. Someone who knew its meaning.

  Maybe someday I will remember. Maybe the refuge holds clues I have not yet discovered. But that is a question for another day.

  The stars wheel slowly overhead, visible through gaps in the forest canopy. I do not know their names or their patterns, but they are beautiful nonetheless.

  Sleep pulls at me, irresistible after the exertions of the day. I let myself sink into it, wrapped in a blanket meant for someone else, perched in a tree above ruins that tell a story I may never fully understand.

  The darkness settles around me, and I close my eyes.