Wandering Spirit

The name Ren Takahashi faded like chalk washed from stone.

In this world, he needed a new name. His parents had named him Leander at birth, simple and sturdy like the lives they lived. But as soon as he learned to speak, he insisted they call him Ren. At first, his parents said a boy could not name himself and that Ren was a strange name. Yet in the end, they relented and agreed to rename him Reinhard. Ren for short.

His father, Markus, was a broad-shouldered man with sun-browned skin and a voice that carried across fields. His hands were thick with calluses, yet gentle when he lifted a lamb from the mud. A simple village farmer.

His mother, Greta, was softer, with auburn hair tied in a scarf and laughter that made even the chickens pause their clucking. She hummed old songs as she churned butter or kneaded bread, and when she smiled, the small farmhouse seemed warmer.

They lived on the outskirts of Ehrwald, a humble farming village nestled between emerald fields and the looming gray teeth of the mountains. Beyond the pastures, a deep forest stretched like a wall, whispering in the wind. The villagers spoke of wolves there, and worse things, darker beasts, though Ren had never seen more than a shadow slipping between the trees.

Life here was simple. Hard work at dawn, the smell of hay and fresh bread, the lowing of cattle in the meadow. The farm thrummed with life. Cows with soft eyes and heavy breaths, goats with mischievous horns, sheep huddled like clouds of wool. Chickens darted in and out of the barn, scattering straw in their wake. Dogs guarded the yard, tails wagging but teeth bared when foxes came too close. Cats slinked through every corner, their green eyes glinting like coins in the dark.

To any other child, this life would have been ordinary. But Ren was not ordinary.

Every night, when the house was silent and the last candle guttered out, something stirred inside him. He would lie still under the coarse wool blanket, listening to the crickets hum beyond the shutters. Then the tug would come, soft and insistent, like a current pulling him toward an unseen sea.

At first, it terrified him. The feeling of slipping free, of watching his body grow distant like a doll left behind. But fear gave way to wonder, and wonder to adventure. Night after night, he let himself drift through the wooden beams, through the farmhouse walls, until the world spread wide and silver beneath the moon.

The village glowed faintly in the distance, lanterns flickering in windows. Roofs shone like ink, and the cobbled streets shimmered with dew. He glided past sleeping cows, their breath rising in slow clouds. He watched goats twitch in their dreams, hooves kicking softly against the straw. He soared over the barn roof, higher than the chimney, his heart swelling with a freedom no wings could match.

This was his secret world, silent and endless. Until the night everything changed.

It began with a pair of glowing eyes in the dark.

Their pet barn cat, Vim, a sleek gray creature that hunted mice, crouched on a beam above the hay. Ren floated closer, curious. Its tail flicked lazily, but its gaze followed him as if it saw more than mist. He reached toward it, not with hands, for he had none, but with something deeper. A thread of will that shimmered like water.

And then he was falling.

A rush of heat, the thud of a heartbeat, the taste of dust on his tongue. The world snapped into focus so sharp it made him gasp. The barn bloomed with scents, layered and vivid. Straw smelled sweet, almost golden. Mice scurried in the walls like sparks of sound. Every creak of timber sang in his ears.

He was inside the cat.

Ren blinked. No, the cat blinked, slow and languid. His body was light, boneless, made of silk and sinew. Power coiled in every limb. He stretched, arching his back, claws sliding free like tiny knives. His tail flicked with a mind of its own, a whisper of pride in the motion.

Then he leapt.

The world became a blur of motion and color. He darted along the beam, springing to the loft, claws catching wood with perfect precision. Every muscle sang as he landed silently, tail sweeping for balance. He could hear the mice now, tiny heartbeats drumming under the floorboards, and hunger purred low in his chest. For a wild moment, he wanted to hunt. To feel teeth close on soft fur.

No. He wrestled the thought down, trembling with exhilaration. The cat’s instincts were fierce, primal, eager. But he was still himself. Still Ren.

Hours passed in a dream of motion. The barn’s shadows became his kingdom, and the night his cloak. When the first hint of dawn brushed the sky, he tore himself free, rising like smoke, heart hammering with giddy fear. Vim shook its head, licking its paw as if nothing had happened.

Ren returned to his body moments before his mother stirred.

It did not end there.

The nights became his playground, and the farm his laboratory. He learned the rhythm of possession, of skin-changing, the delicate slide of will into flesh. Chickens were easiest, simple creatures, their thoughts soft and warm like feathers. Cows were bigger but even more docile. They did not resist him. Goats resisted, stamping and bleating, but they yielded if he pressed harder. The dogs fought him tooth and nail, snarling in the dark of his mind until he finally took over. It was easier the second time. It seemed he had to break in or tame a dog first. Then it yielded to his will much more easily. Wild birds sent his thoughts soaring, though their sharp instincts made it hard to stay long.

Every creature had a voice. Not words like humans, but colors and pulses of thought. Hunger. Fear. Curiosity. The gentle ones folded around him like grass in the wind. The proud ones clawed and bit at the edges of his mind.

Predators were the worst.

He learned this when he slipped into a hawk circling above the fields. Its mind was a blade, cold and keen. He tasted blood on its beak, smelled death on the wind. The effort of holding it left him shaking for days.

And yet he could not stop.

By the time he reached his tenth year, he knew the rules of his gift. Weak-willed animals bent easily. Clever beasts, hunters and wild things, pushed back with teeth bared. If he pressed too far, his thoughts frayed like rope and he was pushed out of the body.

He kept it secret. Always. He never told Markus or Greta, never whispered a word to the friends who raced him along the meadow paths. In Ehrwald, strange things drew torches and pitchforks. They called it witchcraft. They had even burned witches in the distant past.

This was his power. His curse. His alone.

There were no video games, television, or internet in this world. But this strange power he had made his new life far more interesting than his old one.

One night, beneath a swollen moon, Ren crept to the edge of the forest. Mist curled low among the roots, and the trees loomed like giants in council. He felt the wolves before he saw them, eyes gleaming red in the dark, breaths steaming like smoke. A pack of shadows sliding between the pines.

His pulse quickened.

He reached outward, casting his will like a net. Threads of thought brushed fur, fangs, hunger. The wolves snarled, and their minds slammed against his like hammers. Still he pressed, searching for the largest presence, the mind that burned brightest.

There. The leader.

He drove his spirit forward. For a heartbeat, he tasted the raw power of the alpha, strength like iron, pride like fire, a wildness that burned his thoughts to ash. The wolf roared inside his skull, and the world exploded.

Ren fell backward, ripped from the beast so hard it felt like his soul had been flayed. He lay gasping in the grass, the forest spinning, bile rising in his throat. His head throbbed with pain so sharp it blurred his vision.

When he could finally breathe, he stared at the treeline, trembling.

The alpha still watched, eyes glowing like twin moons. Then it turned, melting into the mist with its pack.

Ren clenched his fists. His heart pounded with terror, and with something hotter, fiercer.

“I will master it,” he whispered to the dark. “No matter what it takes.”

The wind carried his vow into the forest, where wolves howled at the moon.