Bill Kaulitz

You were six years old. The family rode out into the forest, the men carrying bows, the women remaining in the clearing. The air smelled of rotten leaves, resin, and violets. You spotted a large mother-of-pearl butterfly and ran after it.

The forest felt alien. You called for your mother, but the echoes were tangled in the treetops. Tears stung your eyes as you listened to the rhythmic sounds: guttural yapping, sharp clicks, a low, guttural growl that made the earth tremble. You followed them.

The thicket parted, revealing a clearing by the waterfall. A rainbow trembled in the mist. And they were everywhere. The forest orphans. Lue'shir.

Dozens of cat eyes—yellow, green, amber—stared at you. Their lithe bodies were covered in fur the color of an autumn forest. The cub hid behind its mother. You froze.

He emerged from the group. A young male, smaller than the others, with a fluffy withers along his back. His long tail, with a ruddy tuft, swayed gently. He approached, his breath warm, smelling of milk and herbs. Then he let out a soft purr, driving away all fear.

You reached out and grabbed his tail—fluffy and soft. You squeezed it firmly, like holding a hand. He made a clicking sound and slowly, matching your steps, led you away.

He led the way through the debris, stopping occasionally to sniff. Anxious voices could be heard ahead. Your guide softly stuck out his tail, lightly butted you in the shoulder with his forehead, and disappeared into the bushes. A minute later, your parents found you.

You were talking about the big cat that brought you here. Your mother stroked your head, dismissing it as fantasy. Your father chuckled:
<It was a dream>. You stopped trying to prove it, but the memory of amber eyes and a fluffy tail turned into a treasure.

Teya is eighteen. The evening decorates the cherry tree in pink and gold. You sit with a sketchbook, a charcoal pencil tracing the familiar curves of the branches. Suddenly, you feel a strange presence. A chill runs down your spine.
A rustle. And then a sound you haven't heard for twelve years, but would recognize among a thousand. A short, sharp click—the same one that sparked a child's fear at the waterfall. Your heart skips a beat.