The second evening was falling, and light, filtered through the crooked shutters, stretched orange bands across the wobbly tables of the old inn. Crouched before the hearth, Terence eased two twigs into place. The flame caught on the first try, as if the house itself, grateful, were blowing on the ember. He gave a small smile: his motions were cleaner, surer. Routine. Even the way he settled a log was hardening into a steady habit, a small knowledge laid down in layers.
Mie watched the dance of the fire with fixed attention. She sat on a bench, knees together, wrapped in the blanket they'd shaken out the day before. Her long ears fluttered faintly when a spark drifted up.
"Tomorrow we'll try to find something other than berries," Terence said in a quiet voice. "Something warm, that sits better in the belly."
Mie turned to him. First, a quick gleam of contentment in her golden eyes, a flicker of appetite and promise. Then a tiny pout, doubt almost too small to see. Her ears lowered by half a centimeter.
"Meat… a little, okay," she murmured, as if trying to convince herself. "But… I like things from the earth."
"We'll do it your way," Terence promised. "Nothing that forces you. We'll adjust."
She nodded, relieved. Half-rabbit, he thought. Instinct tugged her toward greens; her human side allowed meat in small doses. He made a mental note: gentle cooking, broths, vegetables—something that soothes.
A long creak pulled at the night.
The handle of the front door turned, then gave abruptly. The heavy plank swung open with a groan. A breath of cool air ran through the common room, lifting a fine dust that glittered in the firelight like a swarm of fireflies.
A silhouette held a moment in the doorway, cut against the forest dropping shut behind her. Tall, well-worn boots. Fitted pants, cut to hug motion, shaping slender, springy thighs ready to tense and leap. A cropped, functional top, a short cloak thrown over one shoulder. And above all—the detail that knocked the breath from Terence—two long, triangular ears, light brown with black tufts at the tips, upright and mobile atop a head of light chestnut hair.
A thin, supple tail flicked the air in a lazy S.
Time doubled. Another beast-woman, Terence thought, jarred. His mind searched, reflex-fast, for a known image to cling to. Photographs flicked past in memory: nature documentaries, encyclopedia plates, a catlike predator with a smooth face and immense ears crowned with elegant brushes. Caracal. The word bobbed up, clean as a cork breaking the surface.
But here the caracal had a human gaze—lively and playful—and the springy carriage of a huntress stepping into his home like someone returning to a familiar place. The strangeness struck him almost physically. For a second, he felt like a spectator of his own body.
He caught himself finding her beautiful.
Not a showy, aggressive beauty—none of that presence that demands admiration. No: a compact, efficient harmony, a line of gestures made for speed and balance. The cut of the pants traced the mechanics of muscle, an athletic silhouette—not the most imposing, he sensed without knowing why, but distinct, drawn for the field. And the face, where the fire caught an unexpected softness at the corner of the mouth.
I'm finding a beast-woman pretty… The thought arrived with embarrassment, almost shame. Not shame of her—of himself, of his own surprise. In his old world, such figures existed only on glossy paper, in stylized drawings. What people found "cute" or "cool" behind a screen was here, before him, tangible, dusted with forest smell. And suddenly he had to admit his gaze slid, despite himself, to the curve of a hip, the line of a shoulder. Nothing insistent. Just a bare, human noticing he hadn't prepared for.
Her voice caught him.
"Good evening," she called, clear and light, as if greeting a lively counter. "They said this house was empty… Was I lied to?"
Mie, struck by fear, vanished in a bound behind the bench, her blanket flaring, ears pinned. The bench scraped and groaned, and two round eyes peeked through a gap in the backrest.
Terence straightened a little too fast. His heel knocked the hearthstone.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice firmer than he felt.
"Nyala," she answered without hesitation. "Adventurer. Who are you?"
"Terence."
She repeated it, like tasting an unfamiliar fruit.
"Te-re-nce. Hm. Doesn't sound local." (A beat.) "And I didn't see any herd or smell caravan dust. So you live here."
She stepped forward. The fire licked her in a soft glow. Her fitted pants gave a faint rasp. Her tread was heavy with silence; each kiss of leather on wood told of a habit of setting her weight without a sound. She left him no room to retreat, yet he felt no threat—more a presence, a density.
"Careful," she said with a crooked smile. "I have a habit of invading the air around me."
She dropped into a crouch by the hearth, hands extended to the heat. Her tail undulated, punctuating her comfortable sigh with a soft snap, like a metronome.
"That's a fire built by someone who's spent time on it," she said without looking up. "Not a chance fire. Takes breath and patience."
"A bit of both," Terence admitted.
"Routine, then," she said, as if the word came naturally. (She tipped him a mischievous glance.) "Settling in for real, or just pretending?"
He lifted a shoulder, at a loss. I don't know myself. But the question hit true, and, briefly, he felt the weight of a possible home settle in his chest.
"Fff…" (Nyala sniffed, nose wrinkling.) "Smells like… something heated with a lot of hope and not enough sugar."
Terence coughed, abashed.
"It's… an attempt."
"Perfect. I'm in the mood to be judge and executioner." (She leaned in, took the wooden spoon, tasted.) "Hm. Tart. Honest. Edible in small doses." (She swallowed, pulled a comic face, then smiled.) "It warms you. That's already the foundation of a home."
The word bounced off the walls. Home.
Mie slid from her lookout and edged three timid steps toward Terence, her blanket scratching the floor. Her eyes fixed on Nyala, fascinated and poised to flee.
"And here's the little ears," Nyala noted without moving, her voice softened. "What's your name?"
"Mie," she breathed, ready to bolt.
"Enchanted, Mie." (She dipped her head slightly.) "I'll try not to make too much noise… except when I laugh. No promises there."
Mie's ears rose by half a finger, torn between curiosity and caution. She tugged gently at Terence's sleeve.
"Hungry?" he asked, grateful for a bridge.
"Always," Nyala replied. "But not enough to steal. And besides…" (her gaze slid from the pot to Terence's face) "I'm mostly thirsty for stories. How do you go from a dead inn to a fire like this? And where do you come from, with your polite manners and the hands of someone who learns fast?"
Terence felt the floor tilt toward an answer he wasn't ready to give. His mouth drew a half-smile that promised nothing.
"Not very far… and far enough."
"Mysterious. Like a bard—without the feathered cap."
Mie, silent till then, ventured:
"Terence said… tomorrow… we eat something other than berries."
Nyala's eyes snapped to her, a bright spark passing through.
"Oh, good idea! We can catch something small, harmless. A forest bird, two hares…"
Mie flinched. Her nose twitched. Her ears, pricked by the excitement of a concrete plan, drooped, heavy.
"No hare," she said, almost solemn.
Nyala froze, then nodded at once, serious.
"No hare," she repeated with untinged respect. "Got it. We'll do it differently. Eggs, maybe. Or fish, if I can snag some downriver. And lots of green, good things in it. Mmm?" (She tossed Mie a conspiratorial wink.) "I grew up on things that crunch, too."
Terence watched the exchange, a small knot loosening in his chest. She has her way, he thought. Direct, clear, but attentive. No forcing. This world did have its surprises.
Nyala stood and took a slow turn about the common room. She laid her palm on the counter, lifted a frayed cloth, assessed the tables at a glance. Her hand slid over the wood, gathering dust, and she smiled, almost tender.
"She used to be alive, this house. You can still hear it when you tap here." (She rapped her fingers on the main beam; a hollow, deep sound answered.) "She wants to sing again. She's missing voices, and bowls clinking."
She passed near Terence. He felt, plainly, the heat of her body, the smell of leather and resin and, fainter, the scent of skin warmed by running. His heart thumped too hard, annoyingly. Easy.
"You planning to come back?" he asked, half to break the silence that had rubbed between them like a spark.
"Yes," she said without the slightest hesitation. (Her smile curled into a little dimple.) "I like places that decide to be stubborn. And I like even more the people who learn fast. And besides…" (she glanced at Mie) "I think a little ear needs a big ear now and then. It reassures the walls."
Mie made a grimace that wasn't a smile, not quite—her own expression: I want to believe, but my hand stays on the door. Even so, she took a small step forward that said stay.
"Tomorrow morning," Nyala proposed. "I'll leave before dawn, and come back with something honest. No hare. Promise."
"Alright," Terence said.
He'd said alright the way one accepts a gust of wind in the right direction.
Nyala walked to the door and opened it with a wrist flick that spoke of years of habit. The forest breathed into the room, carrying off a portion of the dust-stale scent. She turned back, ears attentive, tail sketching a polite question mark in the air.
"Oh, and Terence…"
"Yes?"
"When you look at me, your eyes don't stop on my ears or my tail first. That's new for me." (She smiled—no irony, no mockery. A simple finding.) "Keep that. It's rare."
He went mute for a second. No clever reply came. He only felt, deep down, a strange gratitude—heavy and soft.
"Good night," Nyala called.
"Good night," he echoed.
The door closed behind her. Night took its place again, with muffled noises and the scent of wet humus.
Mie edged closer until her blanket brushed Terence's leg.
"She's… noisy," she observed gravely.
"Yes," he smiled. "But she promised to laugh more quietly. Well… she promised to try."
"She said no hare, too."
"She said no hare."
Mie nodded, satisfied that justice had been done to the world. Her ears settled into their neutral pose—listening to the fire.
They stayed there together before the hearth, saying nothing, watching the coals deepen to a darker hue. Under his skin, Terence felt a slow turning of fate—as if gears, invisible until now, were meshing without a sound. He thought of Nyala's admission—your eyes don't stop…—and of the confession he would tell no one: yes, he had found her beautiful. But not as a trophy. As one recognizes a clean line, a right gesture, a presence that completes the space.
The house creaked gently above them, as if stretching.
"Tomorrow," he murmured, "we'll go to the brook. We'll find plants that smell good when you bruise them. And maybe eggs."
"And bread, one day?" Mie asked, suddenly dreamy.
He almost laughed. Routine. His hand passed over the bench's wood, imagining sticky dough, a rehabilitated oven's heat, a crust that sings.
"One day," he promised. "Bread that crackles."
Mie closed her eyes as if the promise were a pillow. She fell asleep quickly, head resting against his sleeve. Even asleep, her ears betrayed a dull vigilance: the tips quivered now and then, a reflex.
Terence lingered, long, listening to the fire turn to embers. In the dark behind his lids, two black brushes ran across the tops of brown ears. A smile, a silent step, the promise of morning return. And, between those images, Mie's small hand clutching his sleeve the way one grips a skiff's gunwale for the crossing.
He lay down late, on the floor by the hearth, to keep the warmth and the sleeping child. Before sleep took him, a thought passed—light and clear:
Maybe there are already three of us here.
And for the first time since he had opened his eyes in this world, that felt entirely bearable. Almost happy.