Chapter One: To awaken in a new world.

The kettle screamed, its shrill cry shattering the thick silence of the lonesome cabin. Ydoc, with his thin and trembling hands, reached for the pot and carefully poured the water into a chipped porcelain cup. The steam curled, wisping into the cold air like fleeting ghosts. He watched it dissipate, entranced by its effortless escape. If only it were that simple.

He did not know if tea had ever been his preference, but it had become a habit now. A ritual of sorts. He stared at the reflection in his cup—an unfamiliar, gray-toned face peered back at him, eyes shadowed by a deep and unsettling hollowness. He was told his name was Ydoc, but it never sat right. It felt foreign, a title given to a man who no longer existed.

The cabin was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the wooden walls as the wind pressed against them. The fireplace had long since dimmed into embers, leaving only the ghost of warmth behind. The scent of damp wood and dried herbs hung in the air, mixing with the delicate aroma of the tea he had prepared. It was pleasant, in a way, but Ydoc found no comfort in it.

He pressed the cup to his lips and took a slow sip. Bitter. He should have added honey.

His fingers drummed against the wooden table, his free hand running absently over the worn-out fabric of his sleeves. He was small, frail even. Something told him he hadn't always been this way, but he couldn’t recall a time where his bones didn’t feel like twigs threatening to snap under the weight of his own body. His body—it didn’t feel like his, much like his name. Was he truly Ydoc, pronounced with a heavy WHY-doc? Or was he merely wearing the remnants of someone else?

A deep gnawing sensation coiled in his stomach, not from hunger, but from something else. Something worse. It never went away, never relented. He had tried to ignore it, to smother it with lighthearted humor and feigned indifference, but it was always there. Watching. Whispering.

Ydoc exhaled softly, leaning back into the wooden chair that groaned beneath his weight. The cabin was his world, his prison. He had no memory of stepping into it, yet it was all he knew.

He was alone.

At least, for now...
----

The kitchen was small, but it did not feel suffocating. The space had been carefully arranged, just wide enough for two people to move without bumping shoulders—though it was always just him here. Pots and cans lined the walls in a scattered yet intentional way, their surfaces dulled from years of use. The air was thick with the scent of sweet orange, almost like candy melting over a low flame, clinging to the wooden walls as if it had seeped into the very grain.

Among the dull, gray tones of the cabin, the flowers stood out—soft bursts of color resting in ceramic pots on the counter, their petals vibrant in defiance of their surroundings. Ydoc had never asked for them. He never would have thought to. But Edwards loved flowers. That much, he knew. The thought made his chest feel strange, like he was grasping at something just out of reach, something important that slipped between his fingers the moment he tried to hold onto it.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, and turned toward the door. The floorboards creaked beneath his bare feet as he made his way to the porch, the tea in his hands sloshing gently against the rim of his cup. The door groaned on its hinges as he stepped outside, where the air was colder, damp with the scent of earth and bark.

The bench waited for him, the only piece of furniture on the porch. He and Edwards often sat here together, sometimes speaking, sometimes not. Tonight, he sat alone, his thin fingers curling around the warmth of the cup as he gazed out at the dense forest beyond.

The trees stood like sentinels, dark fingers of ink clawing at the sky, their jagged shapes swaying gently with the whisper of the wind. The forest was deep, unbroken, stretching in all directions as far as his eyes could see. It should have terrified him. And in some ways, it did.

But it was home.

Even though this place was a prison, even though he knew, in some distant way, that there was more beyond these trees, the idea of leaving sent a cold shudder through his bones.

The outside world… it was not for him.

He could not say why, but the very thought of running, of stepping beyond the reach of these darkened trees, was a nightmare he did not wish to face.
---

Ydoc let his gaze wander past the porch, past the familiar trees that loomed like silent giants. The forest stretched far and endless, a world of its own, untouched by time and unknown to the mortals beyond. It was a place of magic, of old stories whispered between the leaves, where shadows danced with unseen things and the wind hummed lullabies only the trees could understand.

This was The Divide.

The air was thick with an enchanting sweetness, as if the very sky carried the scent of ripe fruit, a fragrance that never faded no matter the season. Above, two moons watched over the land, sisters in the darkened heavens. The larger one, a deep and somber blue, bathed the world in a soft, ghostly glow, while the smaller, red as embers, hung close like a devoted sibling, forever trailing behind. Their light twisted through the trees, casting eerie yet beautiful reflections on the blackened pools of water scattered across the forest floor.

Magic was alive here, nestled in the roots and woven into the air itself. The creatures that roamed The Divide were strange but gentle, their existence twisted in mortal myths until they became the monsters of bedtime stories. Ydoc knew better. The fae, the wraiths, the great winged beasts that slept beneath ancient roots—none of them were the villains humans feared. But fear had a way of rewriting truth, and so the Stream, the mortal realm beyond the trees, had closed itself off.

No creature of magic was allowed to cross its borders.

The mortals had grown hateful, their fear twisting into something cruel. They had forgotten the old ways, forgotten the kinship they once shared with the creatures of the Divide. To them, magic was a thing of lies, of nightmares to be purged.

Ydoc did not know what it was like, the mortal realm. He had never stepped beyond the edge of the Divide, nor did he wish to. The very thought of it sent a shiver crawling down his spine.

A shift in the wind pulled him from his thoughts. The sky, once filled with countless bright stars, began to darken. The thick clouds, swirling with shades of purple and deep blue, drifted in like creeping ink spilling across the heavens. Then came the rain.

It did not fall like mortal rain. The drops were thick, heavy like ink, pooling into the cracks of the wooden porch. It ran down the trees like veins of shadow, yet it was harmless, a gift of the Divide.

Ydoc let the cool ink rain streak against his skin for only a moment before he sighed and stood. It was time to go inside.

The warm glow of the cabin waited behind him, the scent of sweet orange still lingering in the air. He stepped back inside, closing the door behind him, shutting out the creeping night.
---

The door closed with a soft thud behind him, sealing the ink-streaked world outside. Inside, the warmth of the cabin wrapped around Ydoc like an old, familiar shawl. The scent of sweet orange lingered in the air, clinging to the wooden beams and the cluttered surfaces. The kitchen welcomed him back in its own strange way—small, yet spacious enough for two.

Two.

A thought stirred at the back of his mind, whispering something vague, something lost.

Ydoc ran a hand through his tangled hair and let out a dramatic sigh, stepping further into the room.

“Oh, what a weary soul I am,” he lamented, lifting a hand to his forehead as if overcome by some great tragedy. “Bound to these wooden walls, a prince without a kingdom, a man without a past. How cruel is fate, to leave me adrift in a sea of forgotten days!”

Then, he grinned, a sharp, lopsided thing.

“Well, at least I have tea. A prince can endure exile, but not without his tea.”

He chuckled to himself, the sound bouncing off the walls of the lonely kitchen. The weight in his chest eased, just a little. Then, with a flourish, he extended his hand to the empty air.

“And now, my lady, would you do me the honor of a dance?”

It was a joke, a fleeting thing, meant to fill the silence.

But then, his breath caught.

Because he was no longer alone.

She stood before him—a young woman, poised and elegant, her figure wrapped in the softness of a ballerina’s grace. She was a catfolk, her fur a rich brown, warm and deep, her sharp green eyes glinting like distant stars. She smiled, tilting her head as if she had always been there, as if she had simply been waiting for him to call her forth.

“I would love to dance,” she whispered.

Ydoc’s fingers trembled as he took her hand, warm and solid beneath his own. The world around them softened, blurred at the edges, as if the cabin itself had melted into something less real than the two of them.

They moved together in a slow, deliberate ballet, their steps ghosting across the wooden floor. She was light as air, her movements effortless, and somehow, Ydoc knew the steps. His body remembered even when his mind did not.

For a moment, it was beautiful.

For a moment, he was not alone.

As they turned, he looked at her—really looked at her.

His voice was softer now, hesitant. “Did I know you? Before… before all of this?”

The catfolk woman smiled, her sharp green eyes gleaming with something unreadable. She leaned in, her presence warm against his own, and rested her forehead against his.

“Does it matter?” she murmured.

Ydoc’s chest ached. His mind grasped for something, anything, but it slipped through his fingers like sand.

He wanted to ask again, wanted to press her for an answer. But something in her gaze told him he would not like what he found.

So, instead, he closed his eyes and let the dance continue.
-----

Their dance slowed, the spinning steps dissolving into something softer—an embrace, unhurried and fragile, like two figures clutching each other in the middle of a dream. Ydoc’s arms wrapped gently around her waist, afraid that if he pressed too hard she would vanish.

Her fur was softer than anything he had words for, a velvet warmth brushing against his cheek, carrying a faint musk that was oddly comforting, familiar without memory. Her breath, warm against his ear, held the bitter-sweet scent of coffee—rich, earthy, the sort of thing that clings to a person long after the cup is gone. When she shifted, her whiskers grazed his lips like fragile threads, and he almost laughed, almost kissed the nothingness of her touch.

He closed his eyes and let himself sink into that closeness, the cabin around them falling away. The floor creaked beneath their weight as if acknowledging the rhythm, the faint patter of rain outside joining in. For a moment, he could almost believe she was real.

Ydoc’s voice broke into the silence, small and uncertain.
“Were we… friends?”

Her answer came soft, but the sound was strange—like a voice heard through layers of water, fading even as it reached him.
“No,” she whispered, “but I wished we were.”

The words lingered, bittersweet, and Ydoc felt his chest tighten. He wanted to hold her closer, to steal her from the emptiness that always reclaimed him. Yet even as he clung to her, the warmth in her body felt thin, as if she were already slipping away.

He pulled back just enough to see her face. Her golden eyes met his—bright as melted amber, yet holding a sadness he could not name. They gleamed with a knowing that unsettled him, as though she carried all the answers he had begged for, but refused to give them.

“Who are you?” His voice trembled. “Why do I see you, week after week? Why does it hurt to remember?”

Her smile curved, soft but broken at the edges, a smile that looked painted in watercolors and left out in the rain. As he watched, it began to blur, to fade, as if the world itself were erasing her stroke by stroke. Her eyes were the last to hold—golden, luminous, watching him with aching tenderness.

She leaned in, her voice no more than a breath across his lips, her whiskers brushing him one last time.
“Wake up,” she whispered.
-------

Ydoc’s breath caught in his throat. There was one question left, and he had to ask it—had to.
His fingers clutched lightly at her arms, desperate, afraid.
“What’s your name?”

The moment hung still.

She smiled, heartbreakingly gentle, her golden eyes reflecting some soft starlight that wasn’t there. And then—her lips moved.

He leaned in—closer, straining, begging the world to let him hear—
But there was nothing.

No sound.
Only the soft shape of a name he could not reach, a word carved in silence.

It was unbearable.
“Wait—say it again—please—”

But she was already fading. The light in her eyes dimmed, her color washing out like paint swirling in water. Her figure grew translucent, her outline blurring into the air like steam from a cooling cup of tea.

And then—
She was gone.

The cabin, once so warm, suddenly felt wrong. His arms, once wrapped around a living body, now held only the cold weight of emptiness. His fingers clawed at the air as if trying to grab her back.

Then came the sound.

Faint at first, like a distant buzz—like a television left on with no channel to show.
It cracked, sputtered, pulsed. Then it grew.

Static.

Sharp. Endless. Too loud for silence, too empty to be music.

His vision blurred at the edges. The corners of the room pulsed in and out like breathing lungs. The air warped around him, growing thick, metallic. Then the static twisted, sharp as glass—becoming a howl of wires, of feedback, of an electric guitar screaming with no hands to hold it.

Ydoc clutched his head.
“No—no, no—stop—”

His knees buckled beneath him. He collapsed onto the wooden floor, the boards unforgiving beneath his weight. His breath came in gasps, ragged, wet, each inhale a battle. The static wormed into his skull, ripping into his thoughts like claws.

He didn’t know where he was. Didn’t know what had happened.
She was gone—
Who?
What was her name?

There was nothing.

Only a gaping hole inside his mind, wide as a canyon, echoing with forgotten things. He couldn’t remember what hurt him. Couldn’t remember what he had just lost. But the sorrow was there, lodged under his ribs, heavy as stone.

He wept.

Not the kind of weeping that comes with clarity or clean grief—
But the kind that spills out raw and shapeless,
the kind that sounds wrong in a quiet room,
the kind that feels like screaming with your mouth shut.

He pressed his forehead to the floorboards, and let the tears fall freely, soaking into the cracks of the old wood.

The static hummed, a lullaby made of broken chords.

And the cabin, ancient and small, watched in silence—
cradling a man with no past,
mourning a woman who may never have been,
and holding a grief so deep it had no name.