I wake to sunlight warming my face and the soft sound of birds outside the window. The air smells like pine and something herbal—maybe the tea from last night. For a moment, I forget where I am.

Then I see the lantern.

It’s still swaying faintly in the morning breeze, its carrot-root glow now faded to a soft amber. Nick is nowhere to be seen, but I hear movement outside—gentle, rhythmic, like someone sweeping.

I pull myself up from the hammock, limbs aching but not as heavy as before. The cushion is still warm where I lay. Outside, Nick hums an off-key tune as he sweeps the little porch with his tail flicking in time.

“Morning,” I say, stepping into the sun.

He glances back with a grin. “You didn’t snore. That’s a first.”

I sit on the steps beside him. The forest edge is quiet this morning—peaceful in a way I didn’t know I missed.

Nick nods toward the trees. “Figured we’d head into the village today. There’s someone you should meet.”

“Another rabbit?”

“Of course. This one’s a little… odd.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Says the tea-brewing, boot-wearing cat.”

He smirks. “Fair. But Lint’s different. He remembers things. Maps the forest. Been at it longer than I’ve been alive.”

“And he knows about—” I pause, unsure how to finish.

Nick’s eyes glint. “Maybe. He’s the kind who sees what others miss.”

We head out shortly after. The path winds tight through the trees again, but it’s gentler this time. Familiar. The sounds of the village begin to rise—laughter, carts rolling over packed dirt, the clink of tools.

Lint’s house sits near the edge of the village, half-buried into a mossy hill, with a crooked chimney and stacks of parchment leaning against every visible surface. Wind chimes made from hollow reeds jingle softly in the breeze.

Nick knocks once, then ducks through the low door. I follow, and immediately I’m swallowed by the scent of ink, old paper, and dried herbs.

The inside is like stepping into a nest of forgotten knowledge. Charts and scrolls hang from the ceiling, pinned with bits of string and stone. A massive map dominates the far wall—crisscrossed with paths, notes, and little copper pins.

“Lint?” Nick calls. “Brought someone you might like.”

From beneath a desk piled high with tomes and twine, a small, round rabbit emerges. His fur is graying, one ear bent sharply at the tip. Tiny glasses rest on the bridge of his nose.

“Hmm?” he says, voice dusty with age. “Oh. The star-touched one.”

My blood chills slightly. “Sorry… what?”

Lint just smiles faintly, adjusting his glasses as he peers up at me. “You carry the scent of other skies.”

I glance at Nick, but he only shrugs like this is perfectly normal.

Lint turns and hops over to a narrow shelf. From it, he pulls a brittle scroll and carefully unrolls it on the central table. It’s a map—but not of any place I recognize. It looks like sky and forest, blended strangely. Symbols shimmer faintly where the ink’s been pressed too deep.

He taps one mark near the bottom. “This changed two nights ago. Just before you arrived.”

The symbol looks like a curled spiral—almost like the ship’s navigation icon.

“What is this?” I ask.

Lint peers at me, his gaze sharp behind the lenses. “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

Nick leans against a dusty shelf, tail swaying like a slow metronome. I step closer to the table, eyes scanning the strange scroll. The lines seem to twist ever so slightly, like they’re not fixed in place.

“I don’t get it,” I say. “You’re saying a map changed… on its own?”

Lint doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he hops up onto a short stool and begins rummaging through a wooden box filled with smooth, polished stones. “The forest remembers,” he murmurs. “Sometimes better than we do.”

Nick clears his throat. “Lint’s got a theory that the woods are... layered. One path today isn’t the same path tomorrow.”

“Doesn’t sound very helpful for a mapmaker,” I say.

Lint chuckles—dry, papery. “Oh, it’s a nightmare. But it’s why I never get bored.”

He produces a tiny stone disk and places it beside the scroll. It glows faintly—same warm hue as the lantern from Nick’s house.

“Carrot-root crystal,” I murmur.

Lint’s ears perk. “Sharp one. They grow deeper in the glades. Only bloom in moonlight, but they hold a charge for days. Useful, if you know how to cut them.”

He hands the crystal to me. It’s warm in my palm. Smooth, but not perfectly round. A soft light pulses inside it, like it’s breathing.

Before I can ask anything else, the door creaks open behind us.

A small rabbit pokes her head in. Pale gray fur, apron covered in chalk and flour. She beams when she sees Nick.

“There you are! Mama Thistle’s been asking after you all morning.”

Nick groans. “What for?”

“She says you still owe her a story from last time. And you missed soup night.”

Lint waves a paw dismissively. “Go on. Go get your soup. I’ll watch the sky-boy.”

“Sebastian,” I say.

Lint nods thoughtfully. “Of course you are.”

Nick shoots me a look that says, you’ll be fine, then slips out after the younger rabbit. The door thuds closed behind them, leaving me alone with Lint and the rustling maps.

I shift, suddenly aware of how quiet it’s gotten.

Lint stares at the glowing spiral on the scroll, then up at me.

“You know,” he says softly, “you’re not the first to fall from the stars.”

I blink. “What?”

But he’s already hopping off the stool, mumbling to himself as he disappears into a tangle of hanging papers and twine.

“Wait—what does that mean?” I call out.

No answer. Just the rustle of parchment and the gentle hum of the wind chimes outside.

I sit down slowly at the table, the crystal still warm in my palm.

Outside, the village murmurs like a dream just out of reach. Somewhere, soup is being served. Stories are being told.

But here, in this dusty room of maps and ghosts, something shifts in the air.

Like the forest is listening.

I leave Lint’s place just as the sun begins to dip behind the trees, staining the rooftops gold. The air smells like bread and pine. Smoke trails drift lazily from chimneys, curling through the branches above.

The village is… cozy. Lopsided cottages with mossy roofs. Little wooden bridges spanning shallow brooks. Rabbits tending to gardens glowing faintly with those carrot-root crystals nestled between rows of herbs and viney vegetables.

As I walk, a few of them wave. Some just nod. Nobody stares too hard. They smile like I’m someone who’s just been away a long time.

A pair of young rabbits dash past me chasing a spinning hoop, laughing breathlessly. A baker sweeps flour from her porch, then pauses to offer me a warm roll stuffed with something sweet and nutty. I don’t know what it is, but it tastes like comfort.

“Tell Nick his tea’s still too strong,” she says, winking. “Burned my tongue again last week.”

I nod, chewing, unsure what to say. But she’s already turned back inside, humming.

A lantern post flickers to life as I pass. The glow from its crystal swells like it knows I’m there.

I slow down. Watch it pulse softly. Like a heartbeat.

Eventually, I find Nick outside a small gathering hall lit with strings of glowing stones. A fire crackles in a pit at the center, and rabbits sit in circles around it, sipping from carved mugs and leaning close, whispering and laughing.

He spots me, pats the spot beside him on a low bench made from a twisted log. “You’re still in one piece,” he says, handing me a mug.

I take it. Warm cider, sharp and sweet. It settles low in my chest.

“Lint said I wasn’t the first to fall from the sky,” I say quietly.

Nick doesn’t flinch. He just watches the fire a moment, then leans back. “Yeah. He says a lot of things.”

“But is he right?”

Nick takes a slow sip. “In his own way.”

I look at him. The flickering light dances in his green eyes. “How much do you know, Nick?”

He doesn’t answer. Not directly. Just hums a little tune and stares into the flames.

Around us, rabbits tell stories. Old ones. Legends of beasts in the mist and rivers that ran backwards for a season. Of trees that wept silver leaves and stars that came down to drink from hidden springs.

No one asks who I am. No one demands answers.

For now, they just let me be.

The stars begin to appear overhead, faint and slow.

I lean back, mug resting on my knee, and for the first time in a long while…

I don’t feel lost.  Not completely.

Later, after the fire dies down and the village grows quiet, we walk back through the trees. The path is softer at night, blanketed in the hush of wind and distant owls. The glow of the carrot-root lanterns leads us home, flickering like stars caught in glass.

Nick says little. Just hums occasionally, his paws nearly silent on the forest floor.

When we reach the house, it feels smaller than before, like the walls have shifted to hold something new. Nick hangs his coat and boots. I kick off mine. The air inside smells like pine and tea leaves and the faint, lingering warmth of the fire we didn’t light tonight.

The hammock creaks gently as I lower myself into it. The woven fabric cradles me, swinging ever so slightly.

Nick pads over to the shelf and blows out the lantern. The room dims to shadows and starlight through the window.

“Sleep,” he says simply, curling into a patch of cushions near the door.

I stare at the ceiling. The night hums quietly beyond the walls. Somewhere out there, rabbits dream under glowing stones, the forest breathes, and Cottonwell holds its secrets close.

My eyes begin to close… but something in me stirs.

A flicker of unease. A question I can’t name.

I shift in the hammock, listening to the soft rhythm of Nick’s breathing, the quiet creak of the trees outside.

This place is kind. Gentle, even.

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow feels like a step off the edge of something.

I close my eyes.

And wait for morning.