We step into the open. The silence shifts. It’s not just quiet—it’s expectant.

Nick walks ahead like he’s done this a hundred times. Me? I hang back a step. The village in front of us looks too peaceful. Too clean. Smoke curling from chimneys. Neatly kept gardens. Cottages tucked in close like they’re whispering to each other.

A soft bell rings somewhere off to the side.

A wooden door creaks open. Then another. Slowly, the village begins to stir.

Then I see them.

Rabbits.

Not just one or two—dozens. They walk upright like Nick, dressed in simple clothes. Aprons, scarves, long coats, loose shirts with worn buttons. A few carry baskets, others have tools slung over their shoulders. They pause when they see us, eyes wide—not in fear, but recognition.

A rabbit with sandy fur and a massive straw hat lets out a gasp. “Nicholas?!”

Nick stops. “Hey, Fern.”

She hurries over and hugs him tight, nearly tipping him off his feet. “You said a week. You’ve been gone three seasons, you rascal.”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “Got a little sidetracked.”

By now, a small crowd has gathered. Some wave. A few kids hide behind their parents’ legs, peeking at me. But no one panics. No one runs. They just watch me—quiet, curious.

One of the older rabbits steps forward. His fur is gray, his posture stiff but steady. He wears a deep green cloak fastened with what looks like a carved wooden pin.

“I’m Elder Moss,” he says, his voice low and calm. “You must be the one Nick brought back.”

I nod. “Sebastian.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods. “You’re welcome here.”

That’s all he says. No suspicion. No questions. Just that.

It throws me off more than I’d like to admit.

“This way,” he says, and turns. “There’s food, and the fire’s warm.”

Nick claps me on the back. “Told you. Nice folks.”

The village opens up as we walk—stone paths, tidy garden beds, low fences. Everyone’s moving now. One rabbit calls out something about setting the long table. Another disappears into a doorway and comes back out carrying a stack of cushions.

Kids zip past us, chasing each other and laughing. A few of them wave at Nick like he’s some kind of local hero.

We reach a wide clearing in the center of town. A huge round table is being assembled—sections pulled from sheds and porches like it’s just what they do when someone shows up. Benches go down, lanterns are hung. A couple of rabbits roll out a tablecloth with little stitched moons and stars.

“Is this normal?” I ask Nick quietly.

He shrugs. “They get excited. It’s been a while since they had company.”

Food starts to appear. Stews in clay pots, roasted vegetables, fresh bread still steaming. I see berries, cheeses, and something that looks suspiciously like pie. The air smells amazing.

One of the villagers—Fern, I think—sets a bowl in front of me. “You eat mushrooms?”

“I guess so.”

“Good. These are the nice ones.” She winks. “Not the funny ones.”

I take a bite. It’s warm, savory, a little sweet. Way better than I expected.

Everyone’s talking now. Some sit beside me, ask simple questions—“Where’d you come from?” “You always look this tired?” “You like jam?”

I answer what I can. Mostly, I just eat.

Nick’s across the table, telling a story—something about a haunted well and a lost teacup—and the rabbits are hanging on every word.

At some point, someone hands me a cup of warm tea. I sip it, and the heat spreads through my chest, calming everything a little.

The sun dips lower. Lanterns glow. There’s music, too—soft and simple, a stringed instrument being played near the well.

I look around. Everyone’s here. Everyone’s at ease.

I don’t feel like I belong, not really. But for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m falling apart, either.

Nick catches my eye and raises his cup.

I nod back.

And for the first time since waking up in that ruined ship, I feel something close to okay.

The meal winds down slowly, like no one’s in any rush to let the evening end.

The rabbits lean back on benches, bellies full, tea cups warm in their hands. The soft sound of strings still plays near the well—someone plucking a tune that drifts like smoke in the air. The younger rabbits curl up on cushions or lean against their parents, blinking sleepily.

Fern starts gathering empty bowls, but she hums while she works, not like someone doing chores—more like she’s content. Moss lights his pipe and sits back against a tree, his eyes half-closed, as if he’s listening to something none of us can hear.

Nick's telling a story about a fox and a missing soup pot, and the kids are gathered around him, wide-eyed. Every now and then, one of them gasps or laughs. His voice rises and falls like he’s done this for years.

I watch it all, quiet. Still not sure how I ended up here. But the fire’s warm. My stomach’s full. And no one’s asking for anything.

Eventually, Nick stands and stretches. “Alright,” he says, his voice low but clear. “Time for us to head out.”

There’s a little round of goodbyes. Fern hugs him again. Moss just nods, eyes glinting under his brows. One of the smaller kids tugs my sleeve and offers me a half-eaten biscuit. I take it, a little unsure, and he grins before running off.

Then we’re walking again.

The path out of Cottonwell is darker now, but not cold. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that settles around you like a blanket. My boots crunch gently against the dirt, the woods hugging close again as we leave the soft glow of lanterns behind.

Through the trees, the light shifts—thicker, deeper gold from the last of the sunset. The forest feels different now. Less like it’s watching, more like it’s resting.

The path twists. Nick walks ahead, steady and sure. I follow, not asking where we’re going. Not needing to.

“You live out here?” I ask after a while, repeating the words I’d said earlier.

He glances back, eyes catching a bit of the fading light. “Sort of."

The trail widens just a little, and then I see it.

Nick’s home.

A low cabin, built half into the hill. Moss climbs up the roof like it’s trying to claim it. The windows glow faintly from the inside. Wind chimes tinkle somewhere on the porch. A stack of wood leans by the door, neatly cut. There’s a kettle hanging near a small outdoor stove, and herbs drying from the beams above.

It looks… lived-in. Not tidy, exactly, but real. Comfortable.

Nick pushes open the door with a paw. “Make yourself at home,” he says.

I step inside.

It smells like tea leaves and old wood. There’s a fireplace, and cushions stacked near a faded rug. Shelves lined with books, jars, odd little trinkets—feathers, stones, old coins. A hammock strung in the corner. A pile of neatly folded blankets.

My eyes are drawn to the lantern hanging near the door. It casts a soft orange light, gentle and pulsing like it’s breathing. Inside the glass, a twisted root glows from within—a carrot, almost, but not quite. Crystalline. Faintly humming.

I move closer. “Is that…?”

Nick follows my gaze and gives a small nod. “Carrot-root crystal. Rabbits farm them outside the village. Grows like a root, shines like a gem. Makes the best lanterns around.”

I reach out but stop just short of touching it. The glow isn’t harsh like a bulb or fire—more like moonlight filtered through something warm. Comforting. Familiar, in a way I can’t place.

“They eat it too?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Some do. I don’t. Gives me the hiccups.”

I let out a tired laugh. The kind that surprises me. “Of course it does.”

Nick drops his bag by the door. “You can have the hammock,” he says, already pulling a kettle down from a hook. “It doesn’t squeak too much.”

I lower myself onto one of the cushions, still watching the lantern sway gently in the warm air.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just fills the kettle and sets it to boil.

Outside, the forest hums low and steady.

Inside, the warmth starts to build again.

And for now, that’s enough.

I lean back against the cushions, letting the warmth seep in. The quiet here is different from the forest — softer, like the whole cabin is breathing with me.

Nick moves around the small space, setting out two cups and a small tin of loose tea leaves. The smell of herbs fills the air, light and soothing. He pours hot water carefully, steam curling in lazy spirals.

“Sit up,” he says with a smirk. “Don’t want you turning into a limp noodle.”

I chuckle softly, pushing myself upright. “Thanks for this. For everything.”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but there’s a softness in his eyes I didn’t expect. “We look out for each other out here. Especially when someone’s new.”

I nod, feeling the weight of that simple truth settle in.

For a while, we sit in silence, sipping the tea. The warmth spreads from my hands to my chest, chasing away the chill.

Then Nick breaks the quiet.

“You’re gonna need to rest up, Sebastian. The road ahead’s not easy, and Cottonwell’s just the start.”

I swallow hard, not sure if I’m ready for whatever that means.

“But you’re not alone,” Nick adds, eyes steady. “We’ve got your back.”

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the wooden walls gently.

I stare into my cup, the tea’s warmth a small comfort against the uncertainty.

“Thanks, Nick,” I say quietly.

He grins again, a spark of mischief lighting his eyes. “Anytime, kid. Anytime.”

The firelight flickers low as the kettle whistles softly. Nick sets the cup down and stretches out, settling onto a cushion across from me.

I glance around the small cabin—the rough-hewn walls, the patchwork blankets folded neatly on a shelf, the faint scent of pine and smoke hanging in the air. It feels like a safe place, but I know better than to get too comfortable.

“Tomorrow,” Nick says, breaking the silence, “we’ll head into Cottonwell proper. You’ll meet the others—rabbits mostly. Friendly folk, but they don’t take kindly to troublemakers.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. Troublemakers, huh? That’s me in a nutshell.

He catches my look and laughs softly. “Don’t worry. You’re not one of them. Not yet, anyway.”

The words hang between us, lighter than the weight in my chest.

I take one last sip of the tea, the warmth lingering like a promise.

Outside, the night deepens. The glowing carrot lantern casts long shadows across the wooden floor, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.

For the first time since waking up, I let myself believe maybe this place—these strange, talking animals, this weird little corner of the world—might be where I start to find answers.

Or at least, where I figure out what questions I need to ask.

I close my eyes, the quiet settling over me like a blanket.

And for now, that’s all I can ask for.