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Three nights have passed since Rozell discovered Grandma's remains.

Yet, every time Rozell returns into his human form and heads back to the cottage, he still can't get used to the sight of visitors at the porch. Different faces greet his grandpa each day. And after their departure, dozens of baskets filled with goods, soothing oils, condolence letters, snapdragon wreaths, and other trinkets always line down the steps.

But Grandpa often remains quiet at their reassurance.

On the fourth day since the discovery, Ma and Mielle drag Da to the cottage for the small feast to welcome him back. But he won't stop spurting out questions during the dinner.

"Why didn't we ask the villagers to bury her somewhere more proper?" Da asks. "And have they retrieved everything from that cave?"

"Her healing box is all that remains," Ma quickly interrupts, as if sensing Grandpa's unsteady emotions. She also shoots Da a warning glare as she scoops a spoonful of soup into her mouth.

But though Da tries to steer off the topic, it still isn't far enough. "What about the beast then? Everyone was amazed at how heroic it was. And how it seemed pretty human."

Mielle jumps on the topic as quickly as a lynx on its prey. "I saw it with my eyes at Mountkirk. Everyone was threatening it with their weapons, but it didn't even lunge at any of us."

"But it had killed young Tesfaye," Ma argues.

"No, it hadn't." The cottage falls silent when Grandpa's voice echoes from Rozell's side, allowing him to breathe in relief. "The Chief came to me this morning, informing me that the tooth found in the funeral hut didn't belong to the beast. It had come from the hunters' teethed belt, though it's still unknown who last held the weapon."

"Does the Chief or the hunters have anyone to suspect?" Da gingerly spoons his soup into his mouth, never peeling his gaze away from Grandpa.

It's like there's a heavy storm cloud above Grandpa's head, for he seems gloomier than usual. "I don't know for sure, but the Chief only has two names in his list: Oxen and Mr. Clam. So far, none of them gives a reliable statement of when they last used the weapon."

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Once the family returns to their Avoridge hut, Rozell sneaks out with his paintgraphing equipment. The outside air smells of wet leaves and fog, reminding Rozell of the heavy stench in Grandma's cave.

Even three nights after they set Grandma in peace, thoughts of her still won't leave him. And despite all her past misbehaviors, he's still determined to dedicate a paintgraph for her.

But it turns out that he isn't the only one seeking solace tonight.

Rozell turns his head aside to find Grandpa with his fingers taut above his knees and eyes lost somewhere between the trees. "Why didn't you spill everything on the dinner table, boy? Are you going to wait for another sixteen years?" Grandpa snickers halfheartedly, patting the empty seat next to him. "Sorry, I didn't mean it. But I hope once the truth is out, they can accept you better than I did."

"Better? You have the best response so far."

"Out of zero others? Who are you kidding with?" Grandpa's grin blooms wider. "Look, I haven't got to say this before, but thank you for helping me find your grandma. Even when no one else had lent a hand after these seventeen years."

A warm blush creeps up Rozell's cheeks. "She came with the one who had revived me, showing snippets of her important memories which hinted her final resting place."

Rozell feels like he might melt into a puddle at Grandpa's warm smile. He has never seen it before, moreover earned it. Today, he might've finally made his grandpa happy enough.

"You managed to set both my soul and hers in peace. But anyway, I have to bother you with a request." He fishes out Grandma's healing kit from his back. "I'm no longer young, and with each day, my head continues to fail me. There's always something I forget."

Rozell carefully sets down his paintgraphing equipment on the table between their seats, wondering how it feels to have his body parts betraying him. "What can I help you with?"

Grandpa wags his pointer at Rozell's paintgraphing papers. "If I ever forget something important, please help me remember it. I don't want to leave this world without any precious experiences."

A harsh chill rocks Rozell's body, causing his teeth to chatter. His hands also turn colder than the snowflakes sticking to the wooden table.

Has Grandpa finally approved my job as a paintgrapher? After all the grumpy words he threw at me, now he ends up needing my paintgraphs?

"I know I can count on you. You can draw anything, as long as I can understand it."

"Then I might start with a couple portrait of you and Grandma. No one had painted you on your wedding day."

Grandpa lets out a shaky sigh as if he's on the verge of breaking apart. "That sounds like a good idea. Hmm, and you should make a paintgraph of us five. Though it would be nice to have Serenade with u-us."

Rozell never expects Grandpa to lower his shield after all these years. The reliable, distant figure he has leaned on for most of his life turns out to be as fragile as he is, if not worse.

"Is it wrong to miss someone this badly? Am I not grateful that someone has finally found her?" Grandpa wipes his nose with the back of his hand and throws a solemn look through his puffy eyes. "Am I still a bad person, Rozell?"

The grandson shakes his head subtly. "You aren't a bad person for grieving. And you're not wrong for missing her either." Gently leaving his seat, Rozell approaches Grandpa and slings his arms over the elder's neck, causing a sniff to erupt near his ears. "I miss her too. And now it's my job to bring her back to life."

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When a tingling pain sears down Rozell's neck, he flinches off his seat. The misty air fills his nose and soothes his breathing, letting him slump back on his chair. He also wraps his sweater tighter, shuddering at how Death is close enough to snag his life away. Sitting out during the night in winter is a good way of shortening one's age while also testing whether it's time for Death to fetch their souls.

Feeling a tingling sensation on his spine, Rozell clambers off the chair and lies on all fours. He closes his eyes as his nails give way to his claws, along with the thick fur that replaces his hair. The remaining scars still burn and sting his skin, but he no longer feels that they're about to tear apart.

In the middle of his transformation, an unfamiliar weight tries to squirm out of his head. Rozell shivers as a pair of antlers burst through, almost throwing him off balance.

The whitetail deer that had tried to warn him of the hunters now joins its fallen friends.

Rozell's yet to lift his body when a gust slaps his cheek. A harpy eagle squawks at the porch's railing, its haunting eyes scanning through Rozell. But instead of bulking its strength even further, the harpy eagle lowers its crests and bows at the Day-Lynx. Death wants to congratulate you on passing the life trial.

Rozell blinks in confusion. "I'm sorry, but what life trial?"

The bird shuts its beak abruptly as if holding back a chuckle. Because you finally know why you have to live the way you do. That you didn't become a beast without any reasons, but because you have a purpose. Saluting at him once more, the harpy eagle flaps its massive wings away, fleeting to the direction of the rising sun. And as colorful streaks begin to paint the sky, the Day-Lynx lets a happy tear slide down his fur.

I guess I owe the gods a favor since they still give me a few more chances to live.

Before darting into the woods to refill Grandpa's drained storage box, Rozell stares at the paintgraphs lining around the porch and smiles.

Will these cheer Grandpa more than his guests did?

A neatly-clothed Grandpa and Grandma grin at Rozell from the first paintgraph, their hands taut as tight as the roots of the giant tree behind them. Pinkish flowers blend with the orange ones as they swirl down from their twigs, creating a colorful maze above and under the joyful couple.

Another paintgraph bears five people—all clothed in knitted sweaters. Grandpa stands rigidly between the father and mother, with the younger kids crouching underneath the three, smiling until their cheeks hurt. The trail of an ages-old avalanche slithers down the slope behind them, leading to a small, dark opening.

The last piece is plain compared to the previous two, merely of Grandpa and a malformed beast near his boots. But both parties barely threaten each other, as if bound by a deep understanding than any other human and animal might have. There aren't many movements in the scene, save for the sentence the paintgrapher had carved underneath: Even the darkest of beasts can still suffer severe inner battles concerning the sake of the world. Or even merely their own.

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Total Word Count: 40,000