Morning came without asking.
Light slid down the chimney and through the doorway where the door no longer was, cutting a pale stripe across the floorboards. It caught drifting dust, ash ground into the wood, and the faint smoke-smell that never quite left the cottage, no matter how long the fire had been dead.
Kitten woke curled on the bed.
He was tangled in wool and feathers, small and warm despite everything. The rooster—Terminator, guardian of mornings and sworn enemy of insects—lay pressed against his side, solid and breathing. The hens were tucked around him in a loose, uneven ring, seven soft bundles of warmth blinking awake with flat, ancient eyes.
For a moment, Kitten did not move.
That was the worst moment of the day.
Because if he stayed still, the quiet crept in.
Not the good quiet of forest and birds and water. The bad quiet. The kind that meant no footsteps by the hearth. No Mama humming while she worked. No Papa's boots outside, heavy and certain. No one breathing except him and the birds.
Kitten sat up suddenly.
"Mama?" he said.
His voice came out small. Hopeful. Thin.
Nothing answered.
The rooster clicked once, deeply offended by the disruption of sleep, but did not move away. The hens merely resettled, feathers puffing, accepting the morning as they accepted everything.
Kitten swallowed.
Right.
Mama and Papa were not here yet.
That didn't mean they wouldn't come back today. Or later. Or tomorrow. Papa had said he would come back.
Papa was big. Papa was strong. Papa knew how things worked.
Papa didn't lie.
So Kitten decided to do what men did when things were wrong.
He decided to work.
Yesterday did not count. Yesterday he had woken up in the hearth with ash in his hair, gone to the lake to drink, told the water he was brave now, and then spent the rest of the day sitting on the two steps outside the cottage, calling for Mama and Papa until his voice broke and the chickens hunted bugs around him like nothing in the world was wrong.
That was yesterday.
Today would be different.
Today he would be useful.
Cleaning the house would be first.
The cottage was still hurt.
Mud streaks dried dark across the floorboards where boots had trampled through. Ash lay everywhere, pressed into corners and seams. Mama's pottery jars were shattered near the wall, clay split and scattered like bones. The chickens were very good at removing insects from the wreckage, but tragically useless at helping with actual cleaning.
Kitten climbed down from the bed. His shoes thudded softly against the floor. He stood there for a moment, just looking.
It was a lot.
The kind of work that made grown people sigh.
So he started small.
He found one of Mama's old rags—thin, rough, already stained—and dropped to his knees. He pushed the cloth forward with both hands, shoving ash and dirt into clumsy little piles. The cloth folded wrong. His arms burned fast. Sometimes he sat back on his bottom and stared at the wall until he remembered what he was doing.
Sometimes he had to stop.
Sometimes he had to walk out of the cottage, down to the lake, rinse the rag in cold water, drink until his throat stopped hurting, and then walk back again.
But slowly, the floor changed.
Not clean.
Just… clearer.
He gathered broken pottery one shard at a time. The sharp pieces went into one pile near the doorway. The dull ones went somewhere else. He didn't know why he did it that way. It just felt correct.
He liked sorting things.
When he finished, the cottage still looked poor, still damaged—but it no longer looked wounded.
That mattered.
Kitten sat back on his heels, breathing hard, and felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Pride.
Not loud pride. Quiet pride. The kind that didn't need to be seen.
The house wasn't fixed.
But it was better.
And for the first time since the night before, Kitten didn't think quite so much about how long Mama and Papa had been gone.
Work helped.
Work made the thoughts behave.
Cleaning was… kind of fun, actually.
That surprised him.
In his old life he had hated cleaning. It had always felt pointless, something that never stayed done. But this was different. This mattered. This was his house.
Kitten stood, brushed ash from his knees, and looked around the cottage again.
There was more to do.
And he would do it.
Because Papa would come back.
And Mama would come back.
And when they did, the house would be ready.
---
The garden fence came next.
But first Kitten ate.
He found a small hard piece of bread left from better days—something Rob had brought, something Mama had saved, something that had survived the boots and the mud by pure luck. It wasn't much. It was stale enough to fight back. He gnawed it anyway, jaw working, cheeks puffing with effort, the taste dry and plain and comforting simply because it was food.
He was small. He didn't need much.
That thought tried to comfort him.
It didn't.
When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went to the doorway.
Sun hit his face.
A light breeze moved through the open gap where the door should have been and tugged at his hair, blonde and always growing, always falling into his eyes at the wrong time. He blinked against the brightness and stood very still, taking in the view.
The garden wasn't good.
It looked… hurt.
The soil was scuffed and churned where heavy feet had gone through without caring. Leaves lay torn. Stems bent. The fence—his fence—had gaps punched through it like it had offended someone.
Beyond it, though…
Beyond it the forest stood perfect and green, trees tall and quiet as pillars. Sunlight slid between branches in bright slanted bands. It was beautiful.
And it was frightening.
Because it didn't look like it held danger.
It looked like it held secrets.
Kitten didn't know what lived in there. He had no maps. No stories except Mama's half-murmured warnings and the way she always listened before stepping too far from the cottage.
Foxes, he thought.
Bad foxes.
And other things. Things with teeth. Things with hunger.
He took a slow breath and stepped down the two wooden steps.
The moment his shoes touched soil, the chickens followed as if it had been a signal.
Terminator led them, chest out, head high, pretending the world belonged to him. The hens spilled into the garden behind him like a released flock—clucking, spreading, some immediately dropping their heads to hunt bugs, others simply standing in sunlight as if warmth alone was a meal.
They moved with confidence.
Kitten did not.
He walked to the broken stretch of fence and stopped.
Stakes snapped.
Rope loose.
Binding torn away.
Plants crushed where boots had passed, peas flattened into green smears, cabbage leaves ripped like someone had fought them and won.
Kitten's hands curled into fists at his sides.
This was the first wall.
The first line of defense.
And it needed fixing.
Walls mattered. He knew that. He'd played enough Total War in his old life to understand the concept even if he'd never been good at it. History mattered. Fortifications mattered. The difference between "safe" and "dead" was sometimes just a line of wood and the belief that it meant something.
Kitten stepped closer.
He started with what he could lift.
He pushed fallen stakes upright again, wedging them into the dirt with both hands and one foot braced behind. Some stood. Some tipped immediately, the loose soil refusing to hold them.
Kitten frowned at those.
Men didn't argue with impossible things.
Men solved them.
So he dropped to his knees and dug.
His fingers clawed at the dirt, pulling out stones and roots, making the holes deeper and narrower. He pressed the stake down again, packed soil around it, patted it tight with both palms.
This time it held.
Not strong. Not perfect.
But upright.
One by one he moved along the fence, repeating the work until the broken section looked like a fence again. A grown man could knock it down if he wanted. A deer could probably jump it. But it wasn't for grown men.
It was for foxes.
And foxes were smart.
Smart creatures respected lines.
Probably.
Kitten told himself they did.
Next came the rope.
He dragged loose binding back around the posts and tied it the way Mama had shown him. His knots were clumsy. They looked wrong—like little piles of shame—but they held. When one slipped loose, he retied it tighter, teeth helping when fingers failed, tugging until the rope bit into his skin.
He didn't stop.
By the time he finished, the fence wasn't pretty.
But it was there.
It drew a boundary. It made a statement. It told the world: this is ours.
Kitten stepped back, hands dirty, knees muddy, hair in his eyes, and stared at his work.
The chickens pecked around him without concern. Terminator strutted along the fence line as if inspecting it, head bobbing, approving in the only way a rooster could approve—by acting like it had always been this way.
Kitten nodded once.
Satisfied.
Then he turned his head slowly toward the forest again.
The green looked beautiful.
Still scary.
But now there was a line between it and him.
A wall.
A first wall.
And that mattered.
---
Next came the door problem.
Doors mattered. Even Kitten knew that. Doors kept bad things outside. Cold, wind, rain, foxes, men—doors were lines you could close, promises you could make to the world.
Kitten noticed the problem when he turned back toward the cottage.
The door was not where a door was supposed to be.
It lay on the ground.
Off to one side of the doorway, half in the garden, half sunk into churned dirt where boots had kicked it aside. Just planks lashed together with old rope, warped by weather and years of use. Not a real door. Not even pretending to be one. A thing that worked only because Mama and Papa had lifted and wedged it into place with effort and patience.
The bad men had disagreed.
They had tossed it aside like rubbish.
Kitten walked over and stood in front of it.
It was bigger than him. Much bigger. Longer than he was tall, thick with soaked wood and dried mud, heavier than it looked.
He stared at it for a moment.
Then he bent his knees.
In his old life—as Bruce the man—he had lifted things. Heavy things. Furniture. Boxes. People, sometimes. He remembered the gym, the smell of metal and chalk, the feeling of a bar biting into his palms. He remembered being proud of his deadlift—nearly three hundred kilos, more than some bears weighed, someone had once joked.
The motion came back to him instinctively.
Feet planted. Breath in. Brace.
Kitten squatted and grabbed the edge of the door with both small hands.
He lifted.
Nothing happened.
The door did not even twitch.
The chickens watched him with mild confusion.
Kitten adjusted his feet and tried again, grunting loudly, face scrunched in effort.
"Come on," he puffed. "Light weight, baby."
The door stayed exactly where it was.
Terminator wandered over and pecked at the wood as if offering assistance. That made Kitten laugh—a quick, surprised sound that escaped him before he could stop it.
"No," Kitten said, shaking his head seriously. "Focus. Kittens focus. This is important."
He tried again. Adjusted his grip. Remembered the rules as if he were teaching himself: feet hip-width apart, drive through heels, keep the back straight, use legs and back together.
His arms shook. His breath came fast.
The door remained unmoved.
Kitten let go and fell back onto his bottom with a soft thump.
"…damn," he muttered before he could stop himself.
He stared at the door, chest heaving.
The chickens gathered again, pecked at it, then—apparently deciding effort had been made—one hen squatted and laid an egg directly in front of him.
Kitten blinked.
"…okay," he said.
He picked up the egg, cracked it against the door out of spite, and drank it raw, grimacing at the texture but grateful for the energy. "Thank you," he added politely to the chicken.
Problem solved, apparently.
The fence, then, was his only real defense.
That thought pressed on him for a moment—heavy and cold.
But Kitten did not give up.
He stood, brushed dirt from his hands, and climbed the two wooden steps back into the cottage. The doorway yawned open—wide and empty, a mouth that let wind and light and danger wander in as they pleased.
That would not do.
Kitten looked around.
Near the doorway were the piles he'd already made—clay fragments, dried mud tracked in by boots, broken pottery ground into the floor. He dragged the piles closer, one on the left, one on the right, shaping them into sloped mounds with his hands.
A funnel.
He left a narrow gap between them—just wide enough for him to pass through if he turned sideways and tried. It only came up to his waist.
He stepped back and frowned.
Good.
But not enough.
So he went back outside.
He gathered stones next. Small ones he could carry. Rounded ones from the lake shore. Rough ones from the garden edge. Each stone was heavy in his hands. Each trip tired him more. He stacked them onto the clay piles, building weight, building presence.
Then he noticed the weeds.
Grass and wild plants grew thick around the cottage—fast, stubborn, always returning. Nettles too, the stingy kind. Mama had taught him they were useful: seeds you could eat, leaves you could dry, tea if you had hot water.
Two problems. One solution.
Kitten yanked weeds free in clumps, roots and all, dragged them to the doorway, and stuffed them into gaps between clay and stone. More weeds. More plants. Anything soft that could block wind, anything that might confuse rain.
The wind tried to steal them.
So he fetched more stones and pressed them down on top, pinning everything in place.
By the time he finished, the sun was low.
Light slanted gold across the clearing. Shadows stretched long and thin. Kitten stood in the doorway and looked at his work.
Two small barricade piles.
They barely came up to his chest now.
They would not stop men.
They might slow foxes. Might confuse wind. Might make rain hesitate.
But it was a start.
Kitten nodded.
Over time, he would make them bigger. Higher. Wider. One stone at a time, one day at a time, until the doorway was no longer a hole but a barrier.
Not a door.
A barricade.
Satisfied—and very tired—Kitten turned toward the lake to drink and wash.
He nearly tripped.
Something half-hidden in the dirt caught his foot.
He looked down.
A knife.
Mama's old knife.
Not the good one—she always kept that close. This one was smaller, the handle worn smooth, the blade nicked but still sharp. She must have dropped it when she ran.
Kitten picked it up carefully.
It fit his hand better than he expected.
Warmth spread through his chest.
He had a knife now.
That mattered.
He didn't plan to fight bad men. He hoped they would never come back.
But if they did—
He looked at the chickens, who were already gathering around him, Terminator standing tall and proud, chest out like a general.
He nodded solemnly.
Yes.
That would help.
With the knife tucked close and the barricade standing behind him, Kitten walked toward the lake.
The chickens followed.
---
With the knife warm in his hand, Kitten pushed open the garden gate.
It creaked softly, a tired sound, and swung inward. He stepped through, small boots brushing grass, and as if on command the chickens followed.
They did not scatter.
They marched.
Terminator went first—head high, chest broad, tail feathers arched like a banner. The seven hens fell in behind him in a loose, wobbling line, clucking softly, feet pattering in the dirt like a tiny army that had decided today was a serious day.
Kitten swallowed.
"Okay," he whispered, to them or to himself, he wasn't sure. "Stay close."
The lakeshore opened before them.
It wasn't flat. The ground dipped sharply, a short, steep edge almost as tall as Kitten himself, dropping down to a shallow shelf of mud and water. Grasses and herbs grew thick along the lip—wild mint, reeds, broad leaves slick with morning damp. Below, the lake lay calm and clear, barely rippling, shallow enough that Kitten could stand in it up to his knees if he hopped down.
He went to his stomach near the edge, careful, the knife set safely to one side. He stretched his arms out, fingers just barely reaching the water. It took effort. He had to lean far, chest pressed to the earth, toes digging in.
Slowly, carefully, he cupped water in his hands and brought it to his mouth.
Cold.
Clean.
Good.
He drank again, and again, patient, methodical. This was how Mama had shown him. No rushing. No splashing. Don't fall in.
Behind him, the chickens shuffled closer. Beaks dipped. Throats worked. Terminator drank too, alert even as he swallowed, head lifting between gulps, eyes sharp.
Kitten wiped his mouth with his sleeve and glanced at his hands, still dirty, still ash-smudged.
I should wash, he thought. Before night.
That was when the bushes rustled.
Not wind.
Not birds.
Something heavier.
Terminator froze.
The sound came again, closer, leaves whispering in a way they shouldn't. Kitten's stomach tightened. He pushed himself up onto his knees, then his feet, heart beating fast, knife forgotten on the ground for half a second too long.
Then he saw it.
A red shape slid out of the brush to his left.
A fox.
Not big—not a monster—but sleek and thin, all muscle and intent. Its coat burned orange-red in the sunlight, legs long and delicate, muzzle sharp as a blade. Its eyes locked onto the chickens immediately.
To Kitten, it might as well have been a lion.
It was his size.
It was fast.
The fox lunged.
The hens exploded into panic, feathers flying as they scattered and ran back toward the cottage in blind terror.
"NO—!" Kitten shouted, voice cracking.
Terminator charged.
He didn't hesitate.
The rooster launched himself forward in a blur of feathers and fury, wings flaring, spurs striking. The fox twisted, surprised, trying to dodge—but Terminator slammed into its side, latching on, scratching, slapping with wings like shields.
The air filled with noise.
Fox screams—high, furious, pained.
Rooster cries—raw, defiant, furious.
They rolled together in the grass, a snarl of red fur and black-and-gold feathers. Down flew everywhere. Grass bent and snapped. The fox snapped and twisted, trying to shake free.
Kitten stood frozen for half a heartbeat too long.
Then he grabbed the knife.
His legs moved even though they didn't want to. Short, unsteady steps, heart hammering so hard it hurt. He ran toward the fight, breath hitching, fear screaming in his head.
"Terminator—! No—be careful—!"
The struggle vanished into taller grass and brush. Sounds crashed and tangled. Kitten pushed through weeds and stems, tears blurring his vision, knife clutched uselessly in his shaking hand.
Then—
Silence.
Kitten burst through the grass and stopped dead.
Terminator stood there.
Alone.
Feathers ruffled. Chest heaving. A thin scratch along his side, but nothing more. He was tall—taller than Kitten had ever seen him—standing rigid and proud, staring into the distance.
The fox was running.
Red fur flashed between trees, vanishing back into the forest, tail low, gone as fast as it had come.
Kitten's breath left him in a rush.
"Oh my god," he whispered.
He ran to Terminator and wrapped both arms around the rooster's neck without thinking, burying his face in warm feathers.
"I was so worried about you," he said, voice shaking. "You're amazing. You're so cool."
He pulled back just long enough to look at him properly.
"My brave knight."
Then he kissed Terminator's beak.
The rooster made a low, satisfied sound, puffing his chest as if this was exactly how things were meant to go.
Kitten blinked, dimly aware that he had just kissed a chicken.
It felt… fine.
Normal.
Right.
He sniffed, wiped his face with his sleeve, and picked up the knife again. His hands still shook.
"Okay," he said softly. "Okay. We—uh—we can wash later."
He glanced toward the forest.
Too quiet.
Too big.
"Let's go inside," he said. "Before anything else bad shows up."
Terminator clicked once in agreement and turned, herding the remaining hens back toward the cottage with sharp, authoritative steps.
Kitten followed, small and fast, heart still racing, knife held tight.
Behind them, the lake lay calm and innocent, as if nothing had happened at all.
And the forest watched.
---
They went back inside quickly.
Kitten shut the garden gate as best he could, ushered the chickens through the doorway, and stepped into the cottage with the strange, hollow feeling that came after danger passed—when your body was still shaking but the world had decided to move on.
Inside, the mess waited.
Broken clay. Dirt. Trampled food.
Kitten stood for only a heartbeat.
Then he worked.
Mama's baskets hung from pegs along the wall—woven grass and reed, sturdy, uneven, made by patient hands. Kitten took one down. Then another. Then two more. He set them near the bed, close enough to reach quickly, far enough from the doorway to feel safer.
He started with the seeds.
Seeds mattered.
He gathered them carefully, scooping them up from the floor and from cracked jars, brushing off dirt with his fingers before dropping them into the first basket. Pumpkin seeds. Grain. Little hard things full of future. They went on the bottom, where they would be safest.
On top of those he layered dried mushrooms—dark, curled things that smelled sharp and earthy. Herbs came next, tied in small bundles or loose and fragrant. He didn't know all their names, but he recognized enough: things for tea, things for flavor, things Mama had always kept close.
Berries followed—soft, bruised, already beginning to go. Fish after that, salted and stiff, laid carefully so they wouldn't leak too badly. Meat too, dark and dry, and finally bread—hard loaves broken into pieces that fit where they could.
The baskets filled fast.
Too fast.
Food spilled over the edges, piled on top, stacked wherever there was space. Kitten knew it wouldn't last. Some of it would spoil. Some of it would be lost no matter what he did.
But not all of it.
Not today.
When the baskets were as full as they could be, he sat down on the floor between them and ate.
Berries first, because they would go bad soonest. He ate them slowly, fingers stained red, juice dripping down his wrist. Dried mushrooms next, chewy and strange but filling. A bit of fish. A piece of bread that fought him every bite.
The chickens joined in without needing to be invited, pecking at crumbs, seeds, bits of berry skin. Terminator stood close, watchful even while he ate, accepting the occasional offering with dignity.
Kitten chewed and swallowed and felt his body settle.
He would find uses for the rest. He knew that, even if he didn't know how yet. In his old life, he had liked green things. Gardens. Cooking. Turning raw things into meals that mattered.
That part of him was still here.
When he couldn't eat any more, Kitten wiped his hands on his dress and climbed onto the bed.
He tucked the knife beneath the straw pillow, close enough to touch if he needed it. The mattress rustled softly as the chickens gathered around him, settling into their places by instinct. Terminator pressed against his side, solid and warm, feathers rough under Kitten's hand.
"Good night," Kitten whispered to them.
Especially to Terminator.
He stroked the rooster once, carefully, and Terminator made a low, pleased sound as he settled in.
Kitten lay on his side, facing the doorway.
The night air crept in around the small mounds of dirt and clay and stone he had piled there. Not a door. Not much of anything.
But it was something.
His eyes stayed on it as sleep pulled at him.
Maybe Mama and Papa would come tomorrow.
Yes.
Tomorrow sounded right.
Or maybe later.
Kitten decided he would wait.
He would be good. He would stay here. He would keep the house and the chickens and the baskets of food safe.
And surely—hopefully—everything would be all right.
With that thought, small and stubborn and hopeful, Kitten closed his eyes.
Outside, the forest breathed.
Inside, the cottage held.
And Kitten slept.