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Like the vicious monster it is, nightmare sinks its claws into the head of a sleeping Rozell.

As his blood smudges the snowy blanket, Rozell kicks himself backward with a whimper. His mind blanks out. The pain on his ankle stays like a persistent prick—it hurts worse than anything he ever felt.

Rozell writhes and curls like a newborn in his plaited blanket, his sweat seeping through the thick threads of his sweater. Even though his eyes are shut, he clenches his fists as if he's about to hit someone. A gentle breeze from the window tries to ruffle his thin black hair, but it's stuck on his forehead instead.

This way of dying is too dumb to include in his family's history records. Or even in his death record, if someone in the sky manages something like that.

"What a good guess, Master Rozell. If you look for someone with that duty, it's me."

When long claws spring out of Rozell's slender fingers and toes, he clenches his fists tighter. A low growl escapes his lips, but it resembles a snore well enough to avoid others' suspicion. The threads of his sweater dissolve into his thickening skin, leaving enough room for his fur to grow out and ward the wintry chill away from his body.

As the pain grows stronger on the blade-struck wound, Rozell unleashes his loudest cries. He asks the wind to carry out his pleas for help as he wipes his tears away to search for the mysterious figure.

But nothing—besides the trees and the blade on his ankle—stares back at him.

Rozell's feet no longer curl against the blanket after they turn into massive paws. A blood-sucking animal's bite itches on his stomach, and he scratches it with his claws before the pain jolts him off the creaking bed—away from the nightmare's clutches.

Cursed paws! What have I done?

When he lifts his claws and spots a trickle of blood and a loose thread, he lets out a foggy sigh.

For trout's sake. Sixteen years have passed, but I still scratch myself somewhere every day.

Closing his eyes, Rozell inhales the cold air from his half-opened window. Dawn retreats to its rightful corner as the king of day prepares to replace it in the sky. A heap of snowflakes covers the window sill, as well as the wooden floor, tables, drawers, and the blanket Grandma sewed for him before her disappearance.

Rozell collapses back to the pillow and buries his face on its plushy surface.

Sixteen years have passed, but the throwback—now nightmare—hasn't left him in peace. And he never sleeps long enough after his transformations take place.

Yet, Rozell lets the daily torture continue on purpose. He wants to meet the unseen figure who gave him this new life and understands why it revived him. A part of his memory aches to remember how it looked, but the other part wishes he never regains his memory of that day.

But what will I do once I remember? Will I hunt it down and beg it to take away my second life, or will I thank its mercy?

While the optimistic side of Rozell blurts out a, "Thank you," the darker one pushes out a collection of his awkward encounters with people from dusk until dawn, and also the dangerous ones in daylight—mostly from Mountkirk's hunters.

No one will thank Death for bringing a beast back to life, even when I only show up half of the day.

Before Rozell tosses himself back to a comfortable position, his teeth itch and a familiar sharpness grazes his lip. Once the sunlight peeks through his window, his blade-sharp fangs, coarse white fur, bulky legs, pointy ears, and bushy tail have grown like sprouts after winter.

Ugh, why can't I wake up as a human like I used to? That damned potion doesn't help much either. Am I going to stay this way forever?

When he scratches an itchy part on his back, a pair of long ears textured with dried blood brush against his paws. He gulps his anxiety down when yesterday's memory—involving a bunny stuck against a tree bark, an arrow, and a dizzying amount of blood—rushes back into his vision.

That makes it the twentieth corpse to stay with the Day-Lynx. How—and since when—did it get here, though? Strange, I didn't notice it when I looked in the mirror yesterday. Maybe whoever revived me put that bunny on my back when I slept?

Rozell absentmindedly strokes the animal limbs before a pair of footsteps bustle their way to his door.

"Rozell, kid? Are you awake?"

Holy roots. How Grandpa loves to call me out even before knocking on the door.

Rozell slips back into the humid blanket and crouches into a circle to hide his massive beast features. Once he flattens his ears against his temple, he mutters in both a growl and a yawn, "Morning, Grandpa."

Sixteen years have passed this way, but whenever Grandpa enters the room, Rozell's heart can't calm down.

If he ever sees me like this, will he despise me or pretend I never existed?

The sound of Grandpa's boots against the floor makes Rozell shrink further in his hideout. He muffles a tiny squeak when a familiar pain sprouts on his furred back. It's like some things—or more wriggly creatures—burst out of his skin.

Nothing ever prepares me for the arrival of these bird wings, elk heads, deer torsos, and squirrel bodies every day. Now I have to get used to these bunny ears as well.

"Morning. The weather seems... friendly. For a winter day. So it's time to search for—" Grandpa sniffs and rubs his nose, as if holding back a sneeze.

Maybe the smell of my fur irks him?

Trying to save his mind from further worries, Rozell asks, "Berries?"

The painful memory from sixteen years ago still stings Rozell's chest. Whenever he closes his eyes, he still sees that little bird writhing under the pain the blade brought.

Humans think the Day-Lynx swallowed all those animals and never digested them properly. But what if they find out that all their traps and overdone hunts are responsible for that instead?

Maybe that figure saved me because it wanted to make me these animals' living tombstones.

As Rozell wraps his paws around his mouth to muffle an involuntary growl, Grandpa stops at the windowsill. He dusts away the snowflakes on the wood as if they're pesky spiderwebs. "Yes, berries will be good. Maybe some meat too," he mumbles in his morning voice, opening the creaking window wider. "It's been a while since we ate some deer sandwich."

Rozell almost chokes against his blanket, but he covers it with a cough.

Thank the gods I've practiced to hide it for years.

"Do you want me to visit Mountkirk or Avoridge's meat seller?"

"Do you prefer to hunt for them instead?"

"No. You know I'm terrible at it."

The Day-Lynx can, though, if it ever chooses to use its ability.

When Grandpa moves next to him, Rozell's heart jumps in his chest. However, when sounds of scattered paper reach his ears, he calms down.

The older man tampers with his paintgraphs, rifling through each page as if it's a century-old book. The quiet air makes room for his heavy breath. "Well, you better hurry. They're mostly open during the day."

Wait, should I get them today? But I'm in this form until dusk. How do I get there?

Rozell is yet to shoot out another remark when Grandpa continues, "Have you tried to sell these in Avoridge?"

Rozell gulps, as if he's just caught as a thief. The sweat on his joints makes him itch for a berry hunt in the breezy forest.

Nothing ever prepares him for a discussion about his paintgraphs' sales with Grandpa.

"Not yet. I'm not happy with how they turn out." Rozell takes a deep breath and fidgets with his claws. "I'm going to make this one better than the last batch though. Last time I sold my paintgraphs to Mr. Thack, they were cheaper than a crate of beer. And he only wanted to place them in the back row."

Unlike other paintgraphers, who often paint themselves, the scenes around them, or something out of their imagination, Rozell's paintgraphs take Borealm Woods and the environment's beauty as their theme. While the art's value lies in their ability to show a moving scenery—or illusion—in three scenes on a piece of paper, he also picks his brushes and colors with careful detail. None of them should undervalue the scenery's true beauty, and he hopes the viewers will feel as much awe as he did when he painted them.

Unfortunately, I'm not sure the message reaches Mr. Thack.

"But how can you make this better? And how long are you going to wait? Coins aren't going to show themselves without your effort." Grandpa skims through each paintgraph quicker than before. "Well, if the perfect colors bring us more coins—also fame to you—then good luck."

Grandpa's words feel like pricks against Rozell's heart.

What does he mean by that? Is he upset that I can't get as many coins as most youngsters these days?

"But we still have enough coins to live with." Rozell stretches his stiff legs.

"We need roughly one thousand coins each year. I hate to say this, but we barely have five hundred for next year. And this winter started earlier as well. It's much colder, and yes—we need to restock before the weather gets worse."

Welp. Even five hundred coins aren't enough for us to last until the next summer.

After setting down Rozell's parched papers back under his bed, Grandpa treads to the door with burdened steps. "I still need to fix a lot of things as well. Like these broken things in your room."

Grandpa's tone tempts Rozell to poke his head out of the blanket in respect, but he stays in his cocoon instead. He stops and tries to remember the furniture in his room. Did he break something else these last few days? "Uh... do you mean the wall of mirror?"

"So you noticed. Why are there some tiny cracks and paw prints on it?"

"I..." Rozell forgets when it happened, but he lost his balance when he tried to stand on his hind legs. He tried to cling to the mirror to stay upright. But of course it cracked when his claws dug against it. "I threw a bowl of brushes"—no, he won't believe it! He'll scold me for throwing away those coin-worthy brushes!—"uh, just the bowl. I found a bug—"

"All this mess for an unlucky bug?" Grandpa groans in disbelief. His steps become heavier the farther he gets from the bed. "Look, I want to believe in my paintgrapher grandson. I spent a part of my inherited fortune to buy him stuff." It seems that his voice ages a hundred years older, strong enough to make Rozell squirm in his hideout. "But if he keeps on throwing things around when he loses inspiration or keeps his masterpieces to himself without any intention of earning more coins, I'm not the one to blame when my faith in him fades away."

Again, his words feel like a bunch of pricks in Rozell's heart. An uneasy feeling urges him to growl out loud and bare his fangs at Grandpa as a threat, but he still keeps it at bay. After all, Grandpa always means everything he says. And he isn't a threat to bare fangs at, unlike those Mountkirk hunters.

So he whispers the first words at the tip of his tongue, "I'm sorry."

Sixteen years of living together with Grandpa, yet I still can't make him happy.

As if the thought reaches Grandpa, he grumbles, "Don't be, Roz. Just get some berries for our storage and deer meat for dinner." He pauses at the door. "I'll go to Avoridge and buy the materials for your mirror."

Only when the door has shut and he breathes out of the blanket that Rozell realizes it's the first time Grandpa brings up those suspicious paw prints and cracks, even when they've existed for a while.

Well, I hope he won't mention it again. May the gods help me.

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