The moss smells sweeter than I remember. Damp and thick with rain memory, like the ground itself has been waiting to breathe again. Heartbreak Bridge rises through the mist like a bone crowned with ivy. My home. Or it was. Now it’s something else.
Now it’sours.
Charen’s message is the first thing I see.
She’s spun her webs across the arch in tight silver letters big as a boar’s belly:
“WELCOME BACK, BITCHES.”
I snort so hard I nearly cough.
“Subtle,” River says beside me.
“I think that’s the nicest thing she’s ever said to me.”
“I’m touched.”
“You should be worried.”
From above, Charen drops down on a thread, hanging upside down like a fuzzy death omen with attitude.
“Took you lovebirds long enough,” she chirps, legs twitching. “I was gonna start charging rent for the moss patch.”
River raises a brow. “You don’t evenownthe moss.”
“I do now,” Charen snaps. “Squatter’s rights.”
Veeto’s already by the fire pit, stacking wood like a half-drunk lumberjack. He glances up, sees us, and grins so wide I’m sure something cracks in his cheekbone.
“Well, if it ain’t the honeymooners!” he bellows. “I brought beer and deer jerky. Figured y’all’d be too busy makin’ squelchy noises to forage.”
“Still charming as ever,” River mutters.
“Don’t encourage him,” I growl, dropping our pack beside the stone bench.
“I’d rather encourage Bruce,” she mutters.
Bruce bellows from the pond, tail flicking like a dinosaur-sized puppy. He’s nested in the mudbank and half-submerged, tufts of feathers sticking up like a dandelion gone to war.
“Guess he made himself at home,” River murmurs.
“More like took over the deed.”
The moon’s low tonight, fat and orange as a bonfire biscuit. I can feel it buzzing in my teeth—but not like before. No shift. No rage. Just warmth. It touches the stones like a blessing, like it’s telling menow you build.
So I do.
While River drops her gear and wanders to the ridge with Veeto’s stolen flask, I walk the curve of the bridge, eye the ground beside my house. It’s a good patch. Flat. Sheltered by weeping pines. The soil’s soft enough to dig, but firm enough to hold.
Not just a house this time.
Something more.
I sink my claws into the earth. Pull. Shape. Stack stone. Pour sweat into mortar made from ash and sand. Each rock speaks to me in a language older than any I’ve spoken. This one wants to be a wall. That one? A hearthstone. That slab? A roof beam if I can convince it.
By the time dusk settles, I’ve raised the bones of something new. Not just mine.
Ours.
