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Rozell closes the bedroom door once the familiar scent of his undried sweaters engulf him. But his massive force turns into a slam, rousing Mielle from her sleep. He only chuckles with guilt when she quirks an eye open, reminding Rozell of his childhood days with Ma. Whenever he stayed out late to play with his neighbors or did his tasks longer than Ma's expectation, Ma always threw that glare at him. The one that could make him squirm.

Faking another smile, he scrambles to the gap under his bed and reaches out for the potion box.

I have to stay as a human. I can't turn into a Day-Lynx, moreover after that conversation with Grandpa.

Twisting the cork open, Rozell pours a sip of the horrible potion into his mouth. But when his tongue remains dry after a few counts, he shakes the bottle fervently and widens his eyes.

The bottle's see-through wall is void of any white stains.

"Were you looking for that? I drank it all up," Mielle groggily mutters as she rolls to the side, flashing a sheepish grin at Rozell's horrified gawk. "I'm having some trouble sleeping. And since we're supposed to take turns later on—"

"Does anything weird happen to you?"

"Just a little sleepier." She lightly rolls to the opposite side, as if her action hasn't just cost Rozell some seasons' worth of peace. "It tasted awful. Worse than a beer. The worst thing I've ever had—"

"Because you weren't supposed to drink it!" Rozell ruffles his hair in despair as he curls into a ball against his bed. It takes all of Rozell's patience to not storm off the floor and kick his sister out.

Was she out of her mind? And to think she drank all of it instead of sparing some sips!

"I-I know I wasn't supposed to probe around your things and assumed things on my own. I—uh, I'm so sorry," she drowsily whispers. "I wish there's some way to get it back. M-maybe I can search the local potion store tomorrow and see if there's something similar?"

"It was meant for me. No one else could have it." Rozell's previous anger has dimmed into specks, slowly morphing into hopelessness instead.

How am I going to live now? Without the potion, I can only stay as a human for half of the day. What can I do in summer then, when the daylight is much longer than the night?

Rozell can't bring himself to show his bitterness at his sister. Stretching the matter further will only tamper with her curiosity, and soon Rozell will be left with no secrets.

There's nothing I can do but live—even without the potion. And even if Grandpa gets so disappointed at having a malformed grandson like me.

As the night drones on, Rozell hugs himself in his mantle. The sharp coldness around the cottage embraces his wounds like the tip of a dagger. But he continues to stare blankly at the snowflakes on his window.

What if I disappear and never return? What will happen to Grandpa, Mielle, and the others? Will they look for me, or won't they? I am in the mood to dissolve into the sky. But should I? If only I can fade away as Grandma did. If only things remain as easy as they—huh?

The snowflakes on the window begin to swirl in an orderly pattern. With eyes widening in disbelief, Rozell clumsily approaches it. He can't keep his gasp to himself when the snow finishes forming a descending slope, similar to the one he had tried to visit yesterday. Running down its bottom are the jutting branches of the trees. Slightly to its left is the silhouette of roofs—possibly Mountkirk Village. On its opposing side is Grandpa's cottage. The depiction stops abruptly at the bottom of the window, reminding Rozell of the cliff where his secret cave lies.

His fingers gingerly trail over the new map. The curves and strokes are too detailed to be an accident. Someone must be painting this, but why? And something feels familiar about the scenery. Has he drawn it before in one of his paintgraphs?

The wind howls wildly outside of the cottage before pure darkness settles in Rozell's room, sucking all the lights from the lanterns on the ceiling and the candles on the table. Rozell's heart lurches to his throat as a cry tries to struggle free, but a soft hush next to his ears stops him from advancing.

Listen, Death's hollow voice chills him to the bones. Listen to what she has to say.

Rozell's yet to steady his footing when a woman's youthful cry appears in the distance, "How dare you, Amberth? You promised not to follow the path your greedy predecessors had taken!" The sound of slammed mug bounces over Rozell's ears. "You had sworn to stop!"

Grandma?

"The promise was for then, Serenade. I have no choice but to do this," a man mutters sullenly, followed by the rough sound of a dragged material. He grunts along with the forceful tugs, either because the load is too heavy or it won't stop struggling against his grip. The sound is similar to the noises the hunters make whenever they bring their game back to Mountkirk. And the smell of blood clings thickly in the air, so the animal must be wounded.

What is this—a memory? Was Grandpa once a hunter? But it makes sense; his grandpa, father, and brothers were hunters as well. And if the current hunters respect him enough and always pay a visit whenever they need help—ah, I see the thread now.

"No choice?" Grandma's voice rises. Her shrill soles clamber down several wooden steps. "When you made that promise, dearest man, you should've thrown the option away forever. Should I make you cast an oath instead?" It's like the door slams closed in front of Rozell. Grandma's hurried steps faintly trample across the floor, followed by harsh shoves of opened drawers.

Grandpa exhales heavily when a window shrieks open in the distance, and Grandma's footsteps dart across the crisp grasslands. "Honeydew—"

"Step aside, Amberth. Elk or moose or whatever names you call these creatures, they deserve to live. And it's summer, for trout's sake. You know the rule. No hunting out of winter." The box flips open, and Grandma noisily fiddles with its contents.

Rozell's knees slowly buckle away at the roused memories of Grandma using that box on him several times. He grazes the old wounds and allows a wispy smile to replace his confused frown.

"The rule is only for Mountkirk's hunters. Our cottage isn't a part of—"

"You used to be a part of those men. The rule once applied to you, and it always will." The elk pants breathlessly as Grandma shushes it. "I know we're running out of coins. But this isn't the choice you must take. There are other jobs you can do—"

"This is the least I can do. I have wandered from Avoridge to Mountkirk, asking if anyone needs a carpenter, a handyman, a cook, a builder, or a courier. Forty-six out of fifty people told me they want nothing else other than tender elk meat. It's still hard to buy some cows from our neighboring towns since they are facing a supply crisis."

"And you chose to follow those forty-six morons instead of your wife of twenty years." Grandma rips a bandage, leaving its sandy screech in the air.

"I'm sorry, Serenade. I'm doing all I can," Grandpa whispers, his fingers toying with a weapon that clangs like silver. "But do we have another choice? Winter is in a few months—"

"We could've asked Heron."

"And let their yet-to-be newborn starve? For moth's sake, they still have Rozell to feed as well. I have seen what our son does for a living. Though he always returns home with more coins than anyone else in Avoridge, he needs a longer time to gather them up. And it's just enough to feed all of them for one season."

Rozell flinches in the darkness.

"Then we could've asked the boy to work." A bit of uncertainty clings to Grandma's tone. The bandage's screeches have stopped, yet the elk continues to wail. "Rozell's seven or eight—old enough to help the neighbors. He can also divide his earnings in half—"

Heavy boots stomp away from the scene, carrying Grandpa's grumblings as well. It sends Rozell's heart to his stomach. Whenever Grandpa loses his calm in front of Grandma, a storm is about to explode. His occasional stay-ins there have prepared him for it.

"Don't you dare turn your back at me." A pair of lighter shoes brushes away the dried leaves and debris. "It is the choice I prefer to take. Rather than killing an innocent creature when it still has enough time to live. At least until the winter."

"We have talked about this before." Grandpa's boots slow into a halt. "I won't involve that kid in our troubles. He is too young to do all that. I was, too. And I knew how it feels to be a milked cow."

"But at least he won't die. He will still be able to live."

The bitterness in Rozell's chest grows, but he tries to keep it at bay.

There's a reason Grandma is doing this. There must be. But what?

"You'll take away his childhood days. Isn't that the same thing?" Grandpa growls pettily, distancing his boots back to the direction of the cottage. "I don't wish to discuss this any further. Let's go in before the elk's herd comes to fetch it." The heavy door swings open and shut as Grandpa's steps fade away.

"Just stay away from my husband," Grandma gently says to the elk after a while, caressing its coarse fur. But instead of relenting to her touch, it lets out a shaky bugle, trying to call its herd. Pulling up her healing box, Grandma's voice lowers into the kindest of whispers, "Remind your family to stay away from him and his hunter friends too. Nothing is strong enough to hold him back unless a certain something can remind him of his sins and make him fear to repeat them."

A reminder of his sins—did she refer to me? Had she prayed for me to turn into a horrible beast?

Rozell's blood boils as his temples pound with burning pain.

Did she wish this upon me to finally lead her husband into a better life? Is this true, Death?

But before Death breathes out an answer, the darkness around Rozell begins to swirl, like sugar mixed in a cup of tea. It doesn't take long for a violent wind to send icicles onto his bare skin, baiting a line of curse from his mouth. It's like flecks of snow are dotting the top of his head and even the insides of his mantle, for the coldness touches him in several random crooks and corners of his body.

Hurried hands skive through a bunch of thin branches, followed by a woman's burbles. The squishes of her boots and her urgent tugs remind Rozell of himself earlier that day before the hunters got to him.

Low branches, thick snow, and loud wind—all of them are in the gray part of Borealm, which leads to the mysterious slope.

Rozell's heart sinks deeper in desperation when the unmistakable clinks of Grandma's healing kit settle in the middle of the chaos.

"It should be around here somewhere," she mumbles. "People said there should be a cave nearby. Holy bushes, I have to hurry—a snowstorm is coming."

The line of branches comes to an end when Grandma stops swishing through the foliage. As she quickly treads on the wet snow, a foggy sigh escapes her. But after a few intense counts, her soles touch a dried, solid ground.

The box clatters when Grandma clasps her hands and rubs them together with spirit enough to lit a small hearth to life. Wet fabric—a scarf, gloves, or anything else she could knit to keep herself warm—also plops down on the ground, next to the abandoned healing kit. Thick dampness suffocates Rozell, yet it doesn't seem to bother Grandma.

"Finally. A cave." The wind continues to howl ferociously outside as if it's trying to clear everything on its path. "Amberth will lose his calm if I return too late. All these for saving a trapped deer." Grandma's chuckle contains a hint of panic.

A low rumble gurgles from above the cave. Rozell can faintly hear the soft slides of wet snow, which seems heavy enough to create a crack in the wall. An uneasy feeling settles in his throat, urging him to shoot her a warning.

But what can he do to change a memory?

But wait, when did this happen? Was it some time before Grandma—

A shrill cry bounces through the walls. The cracks in the cave spread quickly, and the place sounds ready to collapse. The rumbling overhead becomes louder as if a giant snowball is rolling down the hill. Pebbles and stones rain onto the ground. A sheer coldness latches on Rozell's skin when a whoosh swoops in from his front.

Grandma's cries briefly echo in the dark before a huge thud muffles her. Only after a few intense counts later, the chaos dissipates along with the wind, and the darkness around Rozell slowly lifts itself like a fog.

Rozell staggers back up as he blows his hot breath onto his fingers to calm them down.

What was that? What happened to her?

Turning his back and shakily adjusts his gaze at Mielle, who sleeps as calm as a bear, Rozell grits his teeth. The thin moonlight manages to illuminate his hunchbacked shadow on the floor, and it also shows his slower morphing from human to the Day-Lynx.

Did Grandma get rolled down by a snowball? Was it her memory before she disappeared?

Like newborn learning to walk, Rozell closes his eyes and tries to retrace the steps Grandma took. But when several attempts of recalling the sites turn useless, he growls in frustration, nearly loud enough to wake the entire cottage.

Until his eyes land on the paintgraph on the window.

It only takes him three counts to understand the map. And it only costs him a few more to slip out.

That dawn, Borealm's notorious beast stays up and lurks around with his nose on the ground. Not even the candles shaped like a 'T' on the mountain's peak can faze him. And not even the hungry wind can force him back into the comfort of his den.

For he now knows what to do. This discovery has always been the reason why he was reborn into a beast with a nose better than a bear's, claws sharper than a vulture's talons, and fur thicker than the coats men always wear.

Tell me, Death, has this been your plan all along?

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Total Word Count: 34,925