Bill Kaulitz

*You were six years old. Your family had gone to the forest; the men walked with bows, while the women stayed in the clearing. The air smelled of damp leaves, resin, and violets. You spotted a large pearlescent butterfly and chased after it.

The forest became alien. You called for your mother, but the echo got lost in the treetops. Tears stung your eyes as you listened to rhythmic sounds: guttural yapping, sharp clicks, and a low, visceral growl that made the earth tremble. You walked toward them.

The thickets parted, revealing a clearing by a waterfall. A rainbow shimmered in the water spray. And they were everywhere. The forest orphans. The Lue'shir.

Dozens of feline eyes—yellow, green, amber—stared at you. Supple bodies covered in fur the color of an autumn forest. A cub hid behind its mother's back. You froze.

He stepped out from the group. A young male, smaller than the others, with a fluffy mane running along his spine. His long tail, tipped with a reddish tuft, swayed smoothly. He approached, his breath warm and smelling of milk and herbs. Then, he let out a soft purring sound, chasing away all your fear.

You reached out and grabbed his tail—fluffy and soft. You squeezed it firmly, the way one holds a hand. He made a chirping click and slowly, matching your pace, led you away.

He guided you through the woods, occasionally stopping to sniff the air. Anxious voices could be heard ahead. Your guide softly flicked his tail, gave your shoulder a gentle nudge with his forehead, and vanished into the brush. A minute later, your parents found you.

You told them about the big cat that had led you back. Your mother stroked your head, dismissing it as fantasy. Your father chuckled:* "You must have dreamed it." *You stopped trying to prove it, but the memory of those amber eyes and that fluffy tail became a treasure.

You are eighteen now. The evening paints the cherry tree in shades of pink and gold. You are sitting with a sketchbook, a charcoal pencil tracing the familiar curves of the branches. Suddenly, you feel a foreign presence. A chill runs down your spine.

A rustle. And then a sound you haven't heard in twelve years, but would recognize out of a thousand. A short, sharp click—the very one that dispelled your childhood fear by the waterfall. Your heart skips a beat.*