Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing I notice is the light.

It’s not blinding. But soft. Dapples through leaves. It’s the kind of green-gold that only happens when the sun has just barely started to climb and the whole world’s still deciding whether to wake up or go back to sleep.

I’m lying on my side in damp moss. My fingers are curled in it like I was holding— or trying to hold— onto something during a fall but when I try to think of anything specific, my mind comes up entirely blank. My jacket is wet along one sleeve. Cold in a way that clings, but not painfully so. My legs are stiff and something small is stuck to my cheek— probably a leaf.

Everything smells alive. But not like a hiking trail or a national park. There’s no asphalt, either. No engine grease. In fact, there’s no trace of human noise at all. It smells like earth. And roots. And berries crushed under paws. It smells like every part of the forest that people never touch, deep, deep in the wilderness.

And underneath all that… something else.

Something strangely familiar. Something known.

I don’t move. Not yet. I just listen. There’s a distant chirp. And something else, something soft. Rhythmic. Not a bird exactly. No mammal, either. More tonal. Insects? No. Not quite.

I open my eyes. Slowly.

Above me, there’s nothing but trees. They’re tall and strange, shaped slightly wrong in a way that makes my chest seize up with recognition.

But not from memory.

From fiction.

Their trunks stretch impossibly high before branching. Their bark is a soft grey-green, the kind that looks like it would hush beneath your fingers. Some trees twists gently as they rise while others lean toward each other in crooked little gatherings. The leaves are thick and glossy, a dozen shades of green I have never seen anywhere else— one of them glows slightly when the light hits it just right. Not bright. Just… alive, in an aware kind of sense.

The canopy sways in slow motion, almost as if the forest is breathing. There’s a breeze, cool and sweet and entirely wrong—

Because this isn’t my world.

This isn’t anyone’s world.

This is—

My breath hitches.

It shouldn’t be possible. But it is—

I’m in Eterna Forest.

Not metaphorically. Not in a dream. Not in a game. Not in some weirdly realistic VR setup or lucid hallucination.

Actually— physically— here.

I recognise the trees from fanmaps and fanart, the forest floor from countless speedruns and nuzlockes, the way the light filters down like every fanart I’ve ever saved to my hard drive in secret. I’m not just seeing it. I’m in it. And that… knowing settles deep in my bones with the same kind of undeniable weight as gravity.

I don’t scream.

I should. Probably.

Instead, I sit up. Slowly. Carefully. My back cracks and it’s such a stupidly, endearingly human sound that for one flicker of a second I almost believe I’ve just had a very realistic dream on some very damp forest floor in my own now very disappointing reality.

But then I see it.

It’s a small thing. Barely a few metres away. Red and brown. Tiny. Round. Eyes like polished stone, antennae twitching like it’s trying to tune into the right station. Tapping out a rhythm against a fallen stick.

Click. Click-click.

Click.

A Kricketot.

And not a 3D model. Not pixel art. Not binaries in a game. A real, living creature. With breathing sides. Twitching limbs. Curiosity in its posture. Caution in the way it doesn’t quite lean forward, in the way it still stays back. Bravery in the way it doesn’t run away.

It sees me. I know it does.

And for a long, impossibly still moment, we just watch each other.

I want to cry. Not because I’m scared (which I am, let’s be honest). But because something inside me— the part that used to believe in magic and then suddenly, unreasonably stopped— is lighting up like it never went out.

Kricketot doesn’t run. Instead, it tilts its little head. Clicks again. Quieter this time. Less like a warning or a cry and more like a greeting.

I shift. Slowly. Cross my legs.

Breathe.

Then, I lift one hand— open, palm-up. Fingers loose. The kind of posture you use with wounded or scared animals. And old friends. “Hey,” I say softly. And still my voice sounds too loud in the stillness.

Kricketot doesn’t flinch. Its antennae flick once. Then it walks forward. Tiny steps. Each one deliberate. Careful. Curious. It stops just short of touching me. Looks up. Black eyes reflecting golden morning light.

It sits.

That’s it. No dramatic bonding moment. No glitter, no music cue, no glowing heart connection. It just sits down, like it’s decided I’m not a threat. Or maybe I am, and it just doesn’t care. We sit together in this comforting silence for… I don’t know how long. Long enough for the sun to shift, to rise higher. Long enough for the forest to feel like it’s accepted me.

Welcomed me.

It’s in that moment— with moss beneath me and Kricketot watching the trees like it’s waiting for a song I can’t possibly hear to begin—

I believe it. I really, truly believe it for the first time. All of it. Gently. Wholly. Like I remembered something I was never meant to forget. I don’t remember how  I got here. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back. But something about the way Kricketot hums without sound… the way the trees move like they’ve known me forever… it doesn’t feel like a place I need to escape from. It feels like coming home.

I lay back down on my back, watching the canopy sway in the wind. Time stretches, entirely unhurried, as Kricketot begins its quiet clicking again. This one sounds more like a rhythm or melody than anything else, like it’s not trying to communicate just now. Just marking the air. Keeping time.

I exhale. The forest exhales back.

It’s real.

It’s real.

Okay. Maybe I can’t really believe it quite just yet.

My brain feels like someone shoved a childhood dream and a hiking manual into a blender  but the scout part of me— the part of me that’s trained to assess, adapt, and survive; the part of me that’s spent so many hours in the wilderness, alone and with others— it’s still there. And it’s pushing back. Quietly. Gently. Take stock. Check gear. Find shelter. Fire. Water. Food. Everything else can wait.

I move slowly, trying not to startle Kricketot. Though I get the strange but undeniably certain feeling it wouldn’t leave even if I did a cartwheel or suddenly started screaming like a maniac. It watches me with vague interest as I pull my hiking backpack close.

It’s still here, thank Arceus. The exact same one I left the house with yesterday— yesterday?— before all… this happened. Zippers. A busted carabiner. There’s even the smear of dried chocolate on the outside from a Clif bar I regret eating on a too-quickly moving bus.

I unzip it. The zzzzt of the teeth opening feels absurdly loud in the stillness. Kricketot clicks in time with it.

I check the top compartment first, standard order. Small tools, first aid. Still there. My pocketknife, dull as ever but still working. A basic first-aid kit. It’s slightly squished but still unopened, unused. Lighter. Flint striker. Backup waterproof matches in their little plastic tube. A tiny sewing kit I never use but keep anyway. Tradition. And a compass— it doesn’t spin wildly, which is somehow incredibly disappointing. Still points north, though. Still real.

Okay. Good. I set everything out on the moss— damp, but not soaked. Still springy. Good drainage, probably— like I’m preparing a casual ritual. Kricketot leans in, carefully inspecting the lighter with grave interest.

I move on to the next layer, the bulk gear compartment. A foldable camping mat, rolled tight. An ultralight tent; olive in colour— blends in well with nature— compact and a little beat up around the corners. One lightweight sleeping bag, stuffed like a reluctant burrito into its sack. Some fire starter sticks. A cook set: pan, pot, a large water bottle, utensils, a tiny fold-out stove that needs gas I don’t have. But it’s there. My notebook. Two pens. Some cloth pouches for berries or herbs. A second thermal shirt and a pair of hiking pants. Some underwear and socks. All still folded. Still smelling faintly of cedar and detergent.

It’s enough.

Not luxury. Not long-term.

But I can work with this.

I pause. Exhale again. My fingers sink into the moss as if I’m trying to sync with the ground itself. I let the rhythm of Kricketot’s clicks carry me through the growing stillness inside my head.

Then, I scan the treeline and take a closer look at the trees.

Thick brush. Not in a creepy or ominous kind of way, just dense like trees allowed to grow freely and take up all the space they need. Light still dapples through the canopy, but not it looks like filtered gold. The trees have bark textures like braided ropes and moss like old velvet clinging to it. I can hear water, too. Not far. A stream, maybe. Or a creek. Birds call to each other in unfamiliar cadences.

There’s no sound of roads. No distant hum of anything made by people.

Only nature.

I catch my reflection in the small metal pot. I look… normal. Exactly how I looked before… how I’ve looked all my life. A little rumpled, sure. Eyes wide. Dirt on my cheek. A small scratch, not even deep enough to draw blood, just above my eyebrow.

But alive. Well.

I press my hands together, grounding myself in the touch. Then, I count backwards from ten. Okay, I tell myself. Breathe. Again.

Next priority: shelter.

This clearing will do. The ground is flat, the bushes and scrubs provided descent cover, and there is a proper water source nearby. And I can see no obvious burrows or nests too close. I don’t want to intrude on anything’s, or anyone’s, home. Especially not, if it’s the home of an Ursaring.

I reach for the tent. It’s soothingly familiar. Evey pole, every loop, every knot muscle memory from a hundred trips before. I can practically put it up blindfolded. Kricketot doesn’t move as I work. It shifts a little, occasionally hopping closer to poke or strap or tap at a pole with a curious antenna or hand.

Somewhere between threading the last pole and pinning the corners down with rocks I found a bit further away, I say quietly, without thinking, “You don’t have to stay.”

Kricketot clicks once in response. Sharp. Almost offended.

I blink. Then I smile. Just a little. “Okay,” I say.

I doesn’t understand the words, I think. Maybe. Or maybe it does. Either way, it stays. Clicks again. Softer this time. Maybe approval.

I finish my tent. I unroll the mat. Sit.

I look around this clearing— this starting point, in a way. I’m not sure what day it is. I don’t even know what brought me here, or how, or if there’s a way back. But I have shelter. I have fire. I have food. Water’s not far. And I have a tiny, clicking companion who’s made no effort to leave.

I reach for my notebook. It’s old. Duct-taped spine. Wrinkled cover. The kind of thing you keep more out of habit and for any potential ideas that then never end up coming. The first few pages are grocery lists— mushrooms, berries, fish, rice, eggs, ham, bread. Nothing extraordinary. Then come some half-finished doodles. Scattered thoughts. One of them looks… vaguely like Cynthia. And behind her—

a shape that might be Garchomp.

Probably inspired by her ruining my last Pokémon Platinum nuzlocke.

I flip to an empty page. My pen still works, thankfully.

Day One, I write.

eterna forest?? i think. it's def a forest, not one i've ever been in for sure. and the Kricketot is also def real. does it want a name?

I want to keep writing, but my body keeps humming with this restless energy that can’t be tamed by sitting around and waiting. I need to do something. Anything. Maybe something useful—

Foraging.

Yeah. That’ll do.

I scan the edges of the clearing. Nothing far. Nothing foolish. Just a short loop. I turn slowly, stretching my legs, Kricketot trailing close behind with its staccato little feet tapping over moss and packed soil. It clicks in slow rhythm, sort of like a walking song. A little mechanical metronome keeping time with my thoughts.

There’s a patch of underbrush not ten steps away, opposite of the direction I found the rocks. The brush is low and dense, with wide leaves and a faint reddish glimmer between them. I crouch, brush the foliage aside.

Berries.

Actual berries.

They’re glossy, round, and deep red. About the size of marbles, clumped in little fans. I blink and tilt my head. Are these… Razz Berries? They look right. Smooth, almost waxy skin. Faint citrus smell. Slight warmth rising from the stem, like they’d been basking in filtered sun just for this moment.

I glance back at Kricketot. “What do you think?”

It waddles closer, antennae twitching. Leans in.

It freezes.

One beat. Two—

Panic-clicking. A full warning trill. High-pitched. It backs up two steps and starts vibrating like it’s caught between a threat response and an urgent PSA.

“Okay, okay!”

I pull my hand back immediately.

The bush rustles slightly, like it heard me. Like it knows it’s been rejected. The air shifts— something bitter, faintly resinous underneath the sweet hits my nose. Not Razz Berries. Not quite. Close enough to fool me, not close enough to eat.

“Thanks,” I say and I mean it.

Kricketot’s still ticking softly, pacing tiny agitated steps in place.

I make a mental note to draw the leaves later and to sketch the colour pattern. Dangerous look-alikes. This world has rules— though they’re not too dissimilar to those of my old word, as far as I can tell— and I will have to learn them again, even if I already know them in theory.

We keep walking, looping around the clearing edge, maybe twenty metres out at most. I move slowly, marking odd trees in my head. There’s a crooked pine. A flat stone like a table. And then—

Another bush. Different, this time. Rounder leaves, smaller berries, blue and glossy and speckled like stars.

I hesitate. “Round two?”

Kricketot approaches, cautious but calm this time. A sniff. A click. Then—

Happy buzz. It taps the ground twice with one foot like a stamp of approval. Then clicks out a tiny rhythmic ditty like it’s made an official announcement.

I smile. “Okay. Those are good, then.”

I pick a few. Just a few. Enough for a taste. I press one between my fingers; it gives slightly, juices my skin with a sweet-sour scent I’ve never actually experienced in real life but knew immediately. Oran Berries. Real ones. The kind you grow in pots in games. The kind that restore ten HP and save your sorry ass when you’re about to wipe out due to the silliest of reasons.

I take a cautious bite.

It’s…

Oh.

It tastes like a real fruit, but with a strange undertone I can’t quite place. Wild. Slightly spiced. Sharp at the end. Not like store-bought sweetness. Not like anything manufactured. This is the kind of flavour that grows far from cities, far from humans. The kind you eat with your hands and no expectations.

Kricketot makes another happy chirp. I pop a second berry into my mouth just for that reaction.

We gather a few more of the Oran Berries, placing them gently in a soft cloth pouch I’ve used for herbs before. I’ll need to find a better container soon, maybe carve something.

Then, I return to the tent slowly, with the berries bundles in my hand, Kricketot humming its contented rhythm behind me like it’s claiming this space with sound. Back at camp, I sit. I place the cloth pouch near a fire ring I’ve built earlier, just a simple circle of flat stones with a shallow hollow in the centre where I’d cleared out the moss.

I light a small fire and lean back. The sky’s a little paler now— afternoon giving way to evening. The light is soft and slow.

Kricketot hops up beside me. Click. Click.

I click back.

Field Notes – Day One

Location: Eterna Forest, I think. Mid-elevation clearing. Good cover. Flat ground. Close to running water (head but not yet located; needs to be checked out asap).

Weather: Mild. Cool shade, light breeze. No sign of incoming rain. Air smells clean.

Initial Thoughts:

Woke up here with no warning. I remember nothing of whatever happened before waking up. But memories starting of what I think might be two days prior to waking up here are still there. Some clearer than others. But this is not a dream. Every sense confirms it— this is real. Kricketot met me almost immediately. Possibly a local. Possibly fate. Either way, it hasn’t left my side. Camp set up successfully. Tent intact. Gear complete. Food limited but manageable short-term. Fire starter functional.

Foraging Notes:

• False Razz Berries?
  • visually similar to Razz Berries
  • same colour, same shape; smells incredibly convincing, but can’t tell if same smell yet
  • Kricketot gave a hard no. Trusting that over my assumptions
  • Marked location with pinecones, will sketch later
  • Possible toxin? Bitter-sour scent when crushed
• Oran Berries
  • Found in shallow east-facing patch near crooked pine
  • Taste sharp, clean, slightly spicy on the back of the tongue
  • Kricketot approved with a small victory dance (may request repeat performance)
  • Harvested a handful. Will test for cooking/preservation methods tomorrow
  • Fruit holds well, firm skin, minimal bruising

Creature Behaviour:

• Kricketot appears to respond to tone, rhythm, and body language more than speech
• Doesn’t like sudden movements
• Clicks to fill silence. Possibly nervous habit. Possibly communication. Possibly music.
• Warns with higher pitch. Approves with low, rolling trill.
• Sat next to me during camp setup like it belonged there.
• I didn’t stop it.

Personal Notes:

• No signs of humans yet
• No tech interference
• Don’t know if I’m meant to go somewhere or if staying put is the answer
• Might wake up in a different place tomorrow
• For now: learn. Stay warm. Don’t eat the red ones.

To-Do Tomorrow:

• Find water source
• Try cooking Oran Berries
• Sketch false berries for reference
• Watch Kricketot more closely during idle periods— there might be a pattern there
• Remember to breathe

Kricketot is curled next to the tent wall now, antennae twitching in its sleep. I don’t know what is dreams about— if it dreams at all— but it clicks sometimes in its sleep. Quiet. Like it’s keeping time even without me.

So, I guess we’re both still here.

That’s enough for today.

— End Entry

Chapter Text

I wake up slowly.

The sleeping bag is warm. The mat beneath it has settled into the forest floor just enough to make me feel like I’ve left an imprint. Like I belong here and am not just passing through. I stay still for a moment. Just listen.

It feels like the forest has changed tone. Where it whispered yesterday, it murmurs today. Distant bird calls. Wind moving like fingers through tall grass. The occasional rustle: leaves, claws, something heavier a bit farther out.

Nothing threatening. Not yet. It’s just the world going about its usual morning business and letting me watch.

I turn my head.

Kricketot is still here. Curled like a comma next to my sleeping bag, antennae tucked down, rhythm silent. I can see the tiny and fall of its breathing, the slow twitch of one leg, like it’s dreaming about running through the wilderness.

I stay still. Because how do you move, when the wild thing that chose to stay has decided you’re safe to sleep beside?

Eventually, I do shift gently. Sit up. My joints crack in protest. Kricketot doesn’t wake, just adjusts. Leans into where I was, like it expected me to stay. It clicks once, sleepily, and then settles again. I slowly unzip the tent. The air outside is cool but not unpleasantly so. Dew clings to everything. The world smells green and wet, and faintly sweet.

I stretch.

It still doesn’t feel entirely real. But my muscles ache a bit, my stomach growls, there are damp socks in the corner of the tent, and I’m still here— that has to mean something.

I gather some sticks and rekindle the fire. Then, I gather some larger stones, always careful not to leave the clearing behind too far, and then carefully stack them over the fire pit. Strengthen the fire. The pot goes on. Water from the bottle— which reminds me: gotta go find the stream today. Big priority. I drop in a couple Oran Berries to stew while the fire breathes and the sun rises higher.

Stewed Oran tastes… amazing. Brighter than I expected. It’s sharp, bitter edge fades away once boiled, instead melting into something smoother, something more rounded. And citrusy. It catches the sides of my tongue like lemon rind steeped in honey. Might be good with salt, too.

Kricketot wakes up halfway through my notes. No warning. No slow waking. Just a soft tick, then it’s upright, antennae flicking, looking around as if it expects something to be different. Then, it sees me. Click again. It sounds less like a question and more like a greeting.

“Morning,” I say.

It clicks once— sounds almost decisive— and waddles toward the fire to sit beside me like we do this every day. Like we’ve been doing this for years. I pass a bit of the cooled Stewed Oran on a flat piece of bark lying around in the clearing. It pokes the mash experimentally. Sniffs. Then eats it with slow, careful nibbles.

Approves of it with a soft, low thrill of sorts. Musical. Like it’s humming with its whole body.

“Yeah, I think I did alright too.”

There’s a few things on my to-do list for today. I’ll stay by the fire for a bit longer, enjoy the silence with Kricketot, then I’ll go looking for the water I keep hearing. It shouldn’t be far. A short trip, just to check the nearby surrounds and to check the terrain. I’ll also need to catalogue the safe foods I foraged yesterday and gather a few more berries. Sketch the leaf patterns. As well as the Not Razz Berries.

I glance at the little bug sitting near the fire, grooming its antenna. “I’m gonna need your opinion on a few things again today, if that’s okay.”

It stops. Tilts its little head. Makes a soft chitter that sounds like it could either be agreement or sarcasm.

I’ll take it.

We stay by the fire for a while longer, until it’s almost out again, and then I stand and pack lightly: my knife, my notebook and pen in case I find something to sketch, my bottle, and one of the pouches in case I find anything edible. I tell Kricketot we’re staying close. It looks at me like that’s obvious. Then, we move. It follows as I walk into the woods, clicking every few steps— either like it’s talking or tracking something.

It doesn’t take long to find the source. I walk slowly, listening— really listening. Not just for the water, but for the way the forest breathes when something is nearby. Every twig snap, every rustle of leaves, every wingbeat above the canopy. Every quiet moment Kricketot chooses not to click.

It follows at my heels, calm. No tension in its movements. That’s good. I trusts its instincts and knowledge more than my own right now.

The ground dips lightly. Softer underfoot. More moss. Then—

There it is. A glimmer of movement through the trees, light reflecting brightly on it. Nothing dramatic. No roaring waterfall or sparkling game cutscene. Just a narrow stream, not even two metres across, winding its way around rocks and roots.

I kneel at the bank. The water is clear. Shallow. Smooth pebbles underneath, some are mottled blue-grey while others the dull red of weathered stone. A few clusters of moss cling to the rocks like they’re holding hands.

It’s… beautiful. Soft. Real.

I dip my fingers in. It’s cold, but not shocking. The kind of cold that wakes you up, sharpens the edges of your awareness and thoughts. Not the kind that bites.

I take out my bottle, rinse it carefully, then fill it.

Kricketot, meanwhile, is inspecting a water-skimming bug with what I can only describe as scientific judgement. It clicks once— approvingly, I think— then flicks a bit of debris off a rock and sits like it owns the spot.

I smile a little. “You’re very opinionated for a bug.”

It does not respond, but it does lean over and dip its antenna into the water like it’s trying to take its own field notes.

I sit down on the edge of the bank. Let my boots rest against the dirt. Let my hand soak up the feel of this place; cool and steady, the earth soft beneath my fingers. The steam hums beside me. Not loud, not rushing. Like it has all the time in the world— and it has.

From here, I can see small plants clinging to the edge of the stream. A tiny green blur flitting through the underbrush (maybe a Sewaddle? I don’t chase it). Scratch marks on a nearby tree. Clawed. Deliberate. Old. Not aggressive. Just someone else’s territory marker. A cluster of round stones, piled like someone stacked them there for a reason.

I tear off a scrap of paper from my notebook, fold it neatly, and drop it in the water. It floats for a few seconds before catching on a stone.

Kricketot clicks softly, watching it drift like it’s a ceremony.

“I think we can use this place,” I say. “For washing, maybe cooking. I’ll test the water properly tonight, but I’m pretty sure it’s safe to drink.” I pause. “And you’ll let me know if anything moves that shouldn’t, right?”

A pause.

Click.

We stay for a while. I write a few water notes and sketch some of the scenery— the pebble tower, the claw marks, the canopy. Kricketot snaps on a flat stone, legs tucked neatly beneath it like a cat.

Eventually, the sun shifts enough that the light stops feeling quite so gentle and more direct. Time to head back. But I mark the path carefully on bark: stones, pinecones, and scratched-in arrows with my knife. We’ll come back. This is a useful place. But more than that: it’s a nice place.

The kind of place that remembers your footsteps.

The walk back to camp is pleasant. Quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t weigh heavy. No threat. No tension. Just the hum of insects, the distant chirp of something nesting nearby, and Kricketot’s steady, comfortable rhythm as it trots just behind my left boot.

When we arrive at the clearing, I don’t go into the tent. There’s a tree just at the edge of camp, half in sun, half in shade. Tall. Strong. Bark wide and grooved. It leans ever so slightly over a soft dip in the earth, like it’s made a seat for anyone patient enough to notice. I sit beneath it. Let my back press against the trunk. My muscles ease at once.

Kricketot follows, slow this time. No clicks. No warning. Just soft, quiet steps. It settles on the ground beside me— not in front of me. Not watching. Just near. Close enough that I can hear the faint clock of its plates shifting when it breathes.

I reach for my journal again and flip to the next blank page. My pen still fits perfectly in my fingers, like the forest didn’t change everything.

Then I start another drawing. I draw the streamside berry patch first. Fine lines. Large leaves, round edges. Veins like a fan. Shading to mark the red-tinged fruit that Kricketot warned me against. I note the way the stems curve toward the sun. Then, I make sure to scribble a small warning symbol next to them; a small skull in the margin.

On its twin page, I draw the Oran bush next. Thinner leaves. Pale underside. Berries much smaller than in the games and slightly oblong. I scribble a little Kricketot in the margin to mark it as safe and write click beneath it.

Kricketot peeks over my arm as I draw. It doesn’t climb into my lap. Not yet. But it leans against my leg. Just barely. Like it’s thinking about it. Like it’s testing the gravity between us. I don’t move. Let it stay.

Field Notes – Behavioural Observation

Kricketot seems more relaxed today and less reactionary. No panic sounds. Follows me with confidence, I think, not caution. Sat beside me when I sketched. Leaned in. May just be curious or maybe this is what trust looks like when it’s small and two-legged and made of clicks.

I pause to listen again. The forest is in full daytime now. Brighter, warmer, and more alive. But not hot. The wind shifts above the canopy, and light filters through the leaves in this soft, dappled pattern across my hands.

Kricketot clicks once. A tiny, soft sound. One that’s barely there but just loud enough for me to hear anyway. I look over and it’s staring at the journal. Its antenna twitches toward the page with the Oran Berry sketch, then back to me.

“You remember, huh?” I ask.

Click.

I place the journal on the ground between us, spinning the pen through my fingers. Kricketot leans in. Not touching the paper but close enough to inspect it like it’s critiquing my linework.

I close my eyes, let my head lean back against the bark. It’s a bit absurd, if I think about it— completely ridiculous. I’m sitting under a tree, in a place I wasn’t ever supposed to be, sketching a berry bush while a bug Pokémon judges my drawing skills.

And somehow, it’s the calmest I’ve felt in years.

I exhale deeply. Time starts to slow in this way it only does when you have nowhere to be and nothing chasing you. I can feel it settling over me. It’s not like sleep, not really. More like that soft edge of consciousness where your mind loosens its grip and lets the world hold it instead.

Kricketot clicks once. Then again. Slower.

I don’t open my eyes. Don’t need to. Instead, I let the warmth of the bark at my back root me, the scent of crushed leaves and old bark filling my nose like the world breathing through the soil. There’s no hum of electricity. No digital buzz. No overhead planes. No push. Just the forest.

And me.

And this small creature that chose to stay.

Somewhere nearby a bird Pokémon calls out. A Starly, I think. Or maybe a Chatot or Wablu. It’s not lout. Or urgent. Just a lazy little upward trill like it’s calling out to a friend. A response comes a few seconds later. Softer. Farther. Then nothing.

Kricketot shifts, brushing against my leg.

I let out a long breath through my nose. The forest takes it in. For a brief, impossible moment, I forget that I’m not supposed to be here. That I’m not from here. Because right now, in this very moment, I am exactly where I need to be. Nothing aches. Nothing chases. Even the part of me that’s always bracing for the next thing has gone quiet.

Kricketot clicks once more. Slower now. Drowsy.

Without thinking, I say, “Don’t worry. We can just stay here a while.”

And we do.

By the time I stir again, the light has changed. The shadows are longer now, the edges of the forest brushed with that deep blue that comes before true evening. The birds have changed, too. Chirping different calls now: shorter, lower. Settling in.

Kricketot stirs beside me. It clicks once, but softly. Sleepy. We’ve been sitting here for hours, yet neither of us seem particularly eager to break it. But night is coming and we need warmth. So, I gather myself gently. Close the journal, tuck the pen away, and stand slowly. Stretch even slower. Kricketot remains seated, watching me with its wide, unreadable eyes. I hold out a hand again, palm open. I don’t expect anything, I’m just offering.

It looks at my hand. Then at me. Clicks once. And hops after me as I head back toward the tent.

I move like it’s routine now: I unpack the pot, check the firewood, and strike flint. Fire comes quickly tonight, like the remaining sticks from breakfast still remember how to burn, and light with a soft crack. Soft orange flickers across the moss.

Kricketot sits down across from me, on the far side of the fire. Its clicking is different now. Barely audible and… more like a purr. Like it’s relaxed. Like it’s home.

I stew the last of the Oran Berries. Add water. Let it bubble gently. It’s not much but it’s warm and sweet and fills the air with a smell that makes me feel less like a stranger and more like someone staying.

As the berries cook, I hum a little. A melody I don’t remember learning but one that feels strangely familiar nonetheless.

Kricketot stops clicking. Listens.

The fire flickers against the inside of my eyelids as I close them. I keep humming. Letting the notes rise and fall like the breeze.

When I open my eyes again, Kricketot is still watching me. Closer to the fire now. Closer to me. Its antennae sway a little with the rhythm, like it’s memorising it. Or synching with it.

I smile softly. “You’ve stuck with me since the start,” I say. It tilts its head. “You’re warned me, walked with me, napped next to me, and judged my drawings.”

Click.

“I think that deserves a name.”

I let the silence stretch between us. It’s a comfortable one. The fire pops. Somewhere in the distance a Hoothoot calls out. I look at the canopy, at the shy stars peeking through the still light sky, and that’s when the name comes to me. Soft. Obvious. Like it was always there, just waiting for me to see it. “Vega.”

Kricketot blinks. Then… Click-click. I think it approves.

I smile again. Bigger this time. “Well, Vega,” I say, “welcome to the team. Or whatever this is.”

It moves closer again. Carefully, though. Deliberate. Then it leans against my side. A single antenna brushes my arm. I don’t move. Don’t breathe too hard. Because the stars just came a little closer.

And I think I have a North now.

Hours later, I’m almost ready to crawl into the tent when I hear it: a soft, leafy crack, like a twig stepped on my something very small.

I pause.

Vega clicks once. Not a warning; this is calmer. Attention.

I stay still. Let my eyes wander across the clearing. And there, by the distant bushes, they are.

Caterpies.

Three of them— bright, green, and absolutely real— poking out from the underbrush like shy little forest spirits. Their antennae sway like they’re testing the air. One pauses to nibble a leaf, very seriously. The others trail behind it. Hesitant but curious.

They probably shouldn’t be here.

Not by the “rules.” Not according to the Sinnoh dex I memorised by heart when I was ten. But here they are. Unbothered. Real. Crawling toward the firelight like they’ve done it before.

I don’t reach for them. I stay put next to Vega and just… watch.

One of them makes it all the way to the edge of the light. Stops. Looks at me. It’s the tiniest one, its tail-end segments still awkward, like it hasn’t grown into itself yet. It blinks. Then crawls a little closer.

Vega shifts beside me. Clicks once. Low and musical, in a way. Not a sound I’ve heard before. The Caterpie tilts its adorable little head. Then, impossibly, it clicks back. Just once. Short and soft.

They understand each other.

Of course they do.

The Caterpie wiggles closer, then curls up— just a little green comma of curiosity— at the edge of the fire ring. The other two remain behind in the dark, half-hidden in the bushes. Watching. But not really afraid, I don’t think. Almost like they sense I won’t do them harm.

I don’t know why they came. Maybe it’s the warmth. Maybe it’s the smell of Oran Berry stew still hanging in the air. Or maybe this forest is starting to talk to me and others. And something in it told them, You’re safe here.

I whisper, not daring to raise my voice and break this moment, “Hey there. You’re far from home too, huh?”

None of them respond in a way I can name.

The smallest one stays near the fire, though. And maybe that’s answer enough.

Its eyes reflect the light like polished black glass, round and unreadable. But not unkind. Soft in the way dogs look at you. Or random cats passing through the streets. It seems… comfortable, sort of. Not relaxed. Then it clicks again— barely a sound— and turns its head slightly, looking back. The other two hesitate. Still half in shadow, their little feet shifting in place. Antennae swaying like they’re testing the air.

I don’t move. I barely breathe. I think— I hope— that’s the right answer.

After a moment, the middle one— slightly larger, with a leaf scrap still clinging to its side— crawls forward. Slowly. Unblinking. It reaches the firelight. Stops beside the first. They sit there together for a beat, the smaller one nudging the second like it’s saying, I told you so.

Then, finally, the last one comes.

It’s the biggest. The slowest. The one with a tiny scar across one eye ridge like it once tried to fight something much too big. Its movements are careful. Wary. But it comes. And that’s what matters.

Three Caterpies. From who-knows-where. Sitting in the glow of a human-made fire like they’ve never seen one but decided to trust it anyway. Maybe because they sense that I’m from who-knows-where, too.

Vega click a soft little tune. Not the steady metronome it usually plays. No, this one is higher. Gentle. Like a lullaby made out of raindrops on leaves.

The Caterpies listen.

I watch. Absorb every detail. Then— without speaking— I pick my journal up again, open to a blank page. Quickly and quietly, I write:

Field Entry – Night 2

Species observed: Caterpie (x3)

Regionally out-of-place (according to the games).

Behaviour:

– Arrived at bushes by clearing at dusk.

– Unafraid after no direct movement.

– One approached fire, then waved over others.

– All three now settled near fire, watching.

– No visible aggression. No tension. Slight curiosity. Possibly hungry? Or seeking warmth?

One has facial scarring. They’re non-threatening, I think. Look superficial. Possibly survivor of predation attempt. Vega interacted musically. Response was… calm. They didn’t reply but listened.

Then, I sketch them. Just a simple thing in firelight, really. I draw the smallest one first. Round body parts, soft V-shaped antennae. Big, wide eyes. Then the other two: bigger, heavier antennae, looser posture. I mark the scar on the largest. Just so I remember who it was.

By the time I finish, the fire is lower. The Caterpies still haven’t moved.

Vega is half-asleep now. Curled just near my ankle. Occasionally it clicks, like it’s checking in even in rest. I put the journal away. Pull the tent flap open. Leave it just enough that Vega can follow if it wants.

I say, “You can stay if you want.”

I don’t know if I’m talking to Vega, or the Caterpies, or even myself. Maybe all three. I shake my head and crawl into the sleeping bag. Zip it up. Let the firelight flicker on the tent walls like distant stars I haven’t named yet.

And sleep takes me.

Field Notes – Day Two

Location: Eterna Forest, same clearing.

Weather: Clear sky. Dry breeze at dusk. Cooler tonight. Light cloud movement but stars visible.

Exploration:

• found the stream. confirmed as nearby sound source.

• water clear, shallow, steady current.
• no aggressive signs from nearby flora/fauna.
• collected sample, washed hands/tools. taste test minimal but tolerable. boiling with Oran Berries fine.
• noticed moss clusters, rock stacks. possibly placed… by weather or others? keep watching. marked path back to camp with small trail indicators (pinecones, carvings).

Foraging:

• returned to Oran berry patch.
• harvested more. sketches complete.
• no new berry types found today.

Companion Update:

Kricketot has remained by my side all day. Responsive. Calm.

• walks with me now, always slightly behind or beside.
• rested during stream break. observes quietly.
• responds to music. humming especially.
• sat close at campfire for the first time. voluntary.

Named today: Vega. (Felt right.)

Vega responded positively— no panic-clicking, no retreat. Clicked once. Sat closer. Felt like something shifted. I think we’ve officially met now.

Personal Notes:

• sang for the first time in years
• there’s a little stillness here that doesn’t quite feel like silence, more like space being made
• I think I’ve been given room to just be

To Do Tomorrow:

• locate additional food sources (edible plants, root checks).
• water purification setup— boil test, sediment strain.
• observe new Pokémon. expand berry map.
• let Vega lead a little. see where he wants to go.

Vega’s asleep now. Curled in next to the fire, antennae twitching with the breeze. I should be worried. I should be terrified, I think. But I’m not. I have a tent. I have water. And I have a tiny star named Vega keeping time at my side.

That’s enough.

— End Entry

Chapter Text

Light filters in through the tent. Pale and gold. The air is cooler today. Crisp. Birdsong comes from above and a few titters sound low and quick in the underbrush. No wind. The fire in the pit is long out, just soft ashes and the faint memory of heat clinging to the stones.

I fully unzip the tent.

Vega’s already up, clicking softly in the moss. Grooming. One antenna is looped neatly over his leg.

And all three Caterpies?

Still here.

They’ve moved closer to the tent. One’s curled up on a warm stone, eyes half-closed. Another’s tracing the ash-ring slowly. Thoughtfully. The scarred one watches me as I crawl out of the tent. It seems calm. Alert. But not afraid.

I sit down next to Vega, watching the Caterpies. Them being still here is one of the strangest comforts I’ve ever felt— that waking up in a world I don’t belong to is somehow less stressful because three soft, green worms decided to crash on my campsite like I’m some sort of woodland Airbnb.

I cross my legs. Rub the last of the sleep from my eyes while Vega paces nearby with his usual quiet little clicks. He stops every now and then to glance at the Caterpies, who are beginning to rise in their own slow ways.

The smallest one climbs onto a warm, flat stone— one of the ones I used to place the pot on— and just… sits. It’s antenna is twitching like it’s absorbing sunlight through sheer will. The scarred one still hasn’t moved much. Still watches everything, including me, with its calm, unblinking stare. Like it’s already decided I’m not a threat but could be a disappointment.

I reach for the cloth bundles and pull out what little food I have left that isn’t a berry: one half-smashed granola bar in the furthest corners of my pack where I haven’t checked yet. I dig around a bit more. Until my fingers close around a single bar I’d forgotten about— some kind of nut mix, definitely past its due date, though.

I sigh. “Not exactly a feast.”

Vega clicks once. Sharp. I think he agrees.

I portion out three of the Oran Berries from yesterday, gently place them on a broad leaf—  plucked from one of the smaller trees— and then slide it over to the Caterpies. They sniff. Nudge. Then eat it in the slow, kind of thoughtful way of animals who’ve never known real hunger and don’t mind experimenting.

“I hope you like berries,” I say. “That’s all I’ve got unless one of you knows how to hunt eggs from a Togetic.”

They don’t respond.

I take tiny bites from the first granola bar. Try to stretch it. There’s only so long I can really live on foraged fruit and Pokémon goodwill. I’ve got a campfire, a pseudo stove, sure, but other than wood no fuel. I’ve got a proper water source now, and maybe more berries if I keep being lucky. But protein? Grains? Actual meals?

I need to find food. Proper food.

And I need to do it soon.

Then, there’s my other problem. An arguably bigger issue— well, maybe not, but at least the same severity of needing proper food, in a way.

Money.

A much smaller problem back home, where everything was over-expensive and digital, and you could avoid it all with a tap of a card. Here? I don’t even know what the currency is.

Do I have Poké Dollars? Do they use Poké Dollars or was that just a game thing? Do I barter? Do I ask someone? Do I even want to go into a town yet?

I fish through the bottom of my bag out of sheer desperate curiosity. At the very, very bottom, half-hidden in some creases and corners, I find… three crumpled bills. Euros. Useless. One old arcade token. Less than useless. Emotionally charged, though. And a handful of coins. Some quarters. And a few… Pounds?

What was I doing before I arrived here?

I sigh. Rest my forehead against my bag. “Okay,” I say, voice muffled, “berries, bugs, fire, no money. We’re about three steps from living off grilled moss and hope.”

Vega pads over. Clicks. The smallest Caterpie climbs onto my boot like it’s trying to be supportive but also check if I’m edible.

I sit upright. “We need a plan.” No of them respond. One of the Caterpies does a full-body wriggle and then sneezes. Adorable. Not helpful. “I need food. More than berries. And I need to know what else this forest has to offer.”

I flip open my notebook, write the word PLAN across the top of a new page in capital letters like that’ll keep the hunger away.

PLAN

• forage
• identify protein sources (nuts? Eggs? mushrooms?)
• Vega to advise
• avoid anything that smells like foot and doom
• Optional: see if the Caterpies know anything. let them lead?

“Okay,” I say. Flip the book closed. “Let’s go shopping.”

Vega clicks sharply. Ready. I feel like he’s been waiting for this. The Caterpies follow. Not in an organised way— more like wiggly ducklings trailing my boots, occasionally veering off to sniff a flower or climb a stick before semi-panicking and hurrying back.

We head east of camp, deeper into the forest. But not far. Not yet.

Vega moves ahead of me. Scans low brush with almost practiced movements. I follow his cues. When he stops, I stop. When he clicks once, it means “safe”. Twice? “Eh.” Three times? “Don’t touch it unless you want to hallucinate colours that haven’t been invented yet.”

Our first stop is a low, bushy plant with broad, flat leaves and pale orange bulbs of sorts hanging underneath like upside-down bells.

I crouch. “These look familiar…”

Click-click-click.

I back away like it’s wired to explode. “Noted.”

The smallest Caterpie sniffs the stem anyway. Vega lunges and headbutts it gently in the face. The Caterpie squeaks and backs up. Looks offended.

“It’s not a survival show,” I mutter under my breath and pull out my journal. I sketch the plant anyway and— much like the Not Razz Berries— tag it with a small skull in the margins and a little note saying, Vega says: Hard Pass.

A little further along, we find a patch of dark brown mushrooms growing around the base of a dead tree. Vega stares at them for quite a long time, then clicks once. Then… climbs onto my boots and clicks twice more.

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s confusing.”

He clicks again. Slowly.

Once…

…pause…

Then a second one. Softer.

Oh.

Maybe edible. But with caution.

I crouch. Draw. The Caterpies gather around me like little green librarians watching me take notes. “This,” I say, tapping the sketch, “we test later. Cooked. With a backup plan.”

The scarred Caterpie crawls onto my shoulder without asking. I let it. It rests its little head against my neck like I’m warm and useful and not a disappointment after all. I pretend I’m not melting.

Over the next hour or so, we find: a nut-producing tree (Vega: click-click pause click = “Yes, but the shell’s unsafe”), an herb with broad leaves and a minty scent (Caterpies: immediately try to eat it. No one died. Probably fine), a small bush of vivid red berries (Vega: full alarm-click mode, Caterpies: instantly cowed).

I sketch everything. Jot down plenty of notes. By the time we’re returning to camp, I’ve got: a bundle full of potential mushrooms, a few tough-skinned nuts that might need a rock to crack, a few sprigs of a leafy herb I’m sure is safe, and four Pokémon companions who followed me like I’m some kind of mossy messiah.

I sit down on the springy moss again. Vega climbs in my lap. The Caterpies form a lumpy green sort of semicircle around my finds, one of them already trying to eat one of the herbs I said we’d safe.

That’s when I realise—

I’m not just surviving. I’m learning.

With a grin, I reach for my finds and spread them on the cloth I’d used for the Oran Berries. It’s a modest haul. Nothing feast-worthy, but it’s a start— and there’s plenty more where it came from, too. I put the mushrooms in the centre. Dull brown caps. Thick stems. A few still clinging to the dark, damp bark they’d grown from. I slice one open with my pocketknife. It’s pale inside, spongy, and doesn’t leak anything awful-smelling or aggressively coloured.

Vega— who’s moved at some point— watches me from his perch on the flat rock beside the fire ring, antennae angled forward like he’s grading me.

“Still click-once, right?” I ask.

Click.

“Okay.” I pause. “You’ll… click again if I try to poison myself, yeah?”

Click-click.

That one sounded slightly sarcastic.

I start the fire again. Low this time. Gentle. I set the pot on and add water, then wash and cut the smallest mushroom into quarters and drop it in. The Caterpies inch closer, seeming fascinated, little antennae twitching at the scent of steam.

I let it simmer for a while. The forest smells… weirdly good. The mushroom releases a nutty, earthy aroma that makes my stomach churn and tighten with a strange sudden hope of sorts.

I take it off the heat. Let it cool. Just one piece.

One. Singular. Noble test piece of uncertain destiny. I place it on a rock to cool. Blow on it. Stare at it for a full ten seconds like I’m daring it to betray me. Then I pop it in my mouth.

Chew.

Pause.

Wait.

It’s… good? Chewy. Dense in the way mushrooms always are. A little earthy. A little bitter on the back end but not poisonous-tasting. (Yes, I do know what poisonous tastes like. Thank you, childhood of eating wild things I shouldn’t have.)

I wait for another minute. No dizziness. No weird visions. No foaming. No dying. Vega clicks once. He was probably holding his breath too, if bugs can do that.

“Okay,” I say, “first mushroom: edible.”

The Caterpies wiggle in what I assume is celebratory fashion. One of them (the tiny sneeze Caterpie) climbs onto my knee, very clearly asking for a sample.

“No,” I say, tearing off a corner of the other granola bar instead. “You get cardboard and oats. I’m the designated guinea pig.”

It snatches the snack with its little arms like it’s offended and proud all at once.

I write a quick note in the journal:

Food Testing

Mushroom type: brown cap, grows on rotting bark; pale flesh, no residue

Cooking: steamed in water over low flame

Taste: nutty, slight bitterness, no immediate side effects

After roughly 15 mins: stable; will test again in larger quantity

With the mushroom test passed and still no signs of internal organ failure or anything else, I prep a second batch of mushrooms. Larger this time. I add in a few of the tougher-shelled nuts I cracked open with a rock (they smell faintly like almonds and look like someone crossbred a walnut and a pinecone), shredded leaves from the minty herb (Vega-approved, Caterpie nibbed), and a handful of Oran Berries for sweetness.

Everything goes into the pot. The smell that rises is shockingly good. Savory. Nutty. Sweet on the back end, like a comfort dish in a world that forgot it owed you one.

The Caterpies have gathered like dinner guests at a campfire banquet. The smallest one bounces gently on its back legs. The big, scarred one sits perfectly still. Watching every move like it’s learning how to do this for itself. Vega clicks a long, rolling note that feels like approval, relief and quite possibly even pride.

I portion the food once it’s done. One broad leaf for each. Steam curls gently into the air. It’s rustic, yeah, and minimal, but this is a proper meal.

I eat. I savour each and every bite. The warmth, the flavour— the toasted bite of the nuts, the sharp brightness of the mint, the soft sweetness of the berries, the richness and earthiness of mushrooms having gone golden at the edges— the way it feels like something real. Vega eats slowly, with tiny movements. The Caterpies? Less so. One faceplants directly into its portion and doesn’t come up for air until it’s done.

The fire crackles. The forest hums again. I eat the last bite of mushroom and lean back with a long, satisfied sigh. “I think that’s our first real win,” I say.

Click.

But the feeling doesn’t last long— not in my head, anyway. The food helped— and knowing there’s more to forage helps as well— but I’m still running mostly on forest luck and bug loyalty. Eventually… I’ll need more. Not just food. Information. Proper shelter. Answers. Maybe even people.

I glance at my companions. “I’m thinking,” I say, “about finding civilisation.” The word sounds too big in this clearing. This forest. Like it doesn’t really belong. “Not cities. Not yet. But maybe the edge of a route or something. A road. Something with sighs.”

Vega doesn’t click. Just tilts his head. Waiting.

The Caterpies twitch their antennae. Curious, I think. Definitely not anxious.

I flip the journal back open and hastily jot down:

NEXT STEPS

• explore wider perimeter, look for signs of paths or routes
• mark camp carefully. return point
• possible direction: west? (sun movement)
• goal:
  • find people
  • barter supplies
  • map
  • quiet contact, ask questions that don’t raise any red flags

I set the pen down. Look at Vega. “You in?”

Click.

The Caterpies all blink at me, in perfect low sequence.

“I guess that’s a yes.”

I smile. Soft and tired and a little overwhelmed all at once. Tomorrow… maybe we’ll walk toward the world. But for now, we’ll sit in this quiet little spot in the woods, stomachs full and not alone.

The afternoon sun filters through the trees in scattered gold, just warm enough to press against my shoulders. The fire is out again. Our bellies still full. My mind is entirely relaxed— for what feels like the first time in ages— and isn’t bracing for survival.

It’s open.

I pull out my trusted notebook, flip past the sketches and food logs, and find a blank space. I write, at the top, in a small neat print:

Field Companion Entries

#??? – Vega (Kricketot)

Status: Constant Companion

Height: small enough to sleep in my hood

Weight: light

Texture: smooth plates, tiny feet, antennae ticklish

Behavioural Notes:

• clicks in rhythm with walking, patterns vary (by mood, I think)
• hums softy when comfortable, stops entirely when focused
• sleeps close to warmth
• will probably not evolve until emotionally ready, may never, that’s fine

Other Notes:

• understands everything I say
• judges my art and notes silently
• probably smarter than I am

I sketch Vega beside the notes. Front view. Side view. A little curled-up sleeping pose. I add a tiny star beside his name. He’s more than earned it.

#??? – Caterpie 1 (Small One)

Status: Little Shadow

Height: shorter than my boot

Weight: light enough to cling to moss unnoticed

Texture: soft, very soft

Behavioural Notes:

• first to approach, initiated contact
• extremely curious, sniffs everything, sneezes
• likes warm surfaces and following Vega

Other Notes:

• makes a high-pitched cooing noise when content
• likes Oran Berries
• absolutely the one that will get stuck inside something and need help

#??? – Caterpie 2 (Middle One)

Status: Observant Wanderer

Height: slightly larger

Weight: squishier, heavier wiggle

Texture: damp; why is it always slightly damp?

Behavioural Notes:

• waited for signal to approach
• investigates carefully before touching things
• traced ash ring with remarkable precision

Other Notes:

• responds to humming.
• will probably evolve first and be very smug about it

#??? – Caterpie 3 (Scarred One)

Status: The Quiet Guard

Height: largest

Weight: solid, dense, will not be moved

Texture: rougher skin, horn edge chipped

Behavioural Notes:

• waited longest to approach, only moved after others were safe
• watches me when I’m not looking, keeps lookout during meals
• does not startle easily

Other Notes:

• accepts food with calm dignity
• absolutely going to be the team’s Butterfree bodyguard one day

I close the notebook slowly. Lay it on my lap. There’s some smudges on a few pages and a tiny berry stain at the corner of the page, courtesy of Caterpie 1’s curious enthusiasm.

Vega hops back into my lap and settles without a sound. The Caterpies stretch out in a row near the tent, soft bundles in the dappled light. I’ve never had a team before. Not like this. Not ones who chose me, not ones I didn’t ask anything of.

Just… here. Just with me.

The coals are almost out by now, too, but I don’t rekindle it. The Caterpies are already curled up in their chosen spots— scarred one near the fire, middle one under the edge of the tent, small one trying (and failing) to wedge itself into my cooking pot.

After a while, Vega shifts again. Hops down from my lap and settling beside me instead. Unusually quiet.

The stars are out now. Full and bright. Not dimmed by city light or noise or other pollution. They’re the kind of stars that made me believe in other worlds before I ever stepped into one.

I lean back against the tent. Let my head rest on my arms. The breeze is soft. The world smells like moss and wood and smoke and the last bit of mint on my fingers.

I speak quietly. Just for Vega. Maybe for myself. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.” Vega doesn’t click. Just… listens, I guess. “I mean, I know how to survive. That part’s easy. Find food. Keep warm. Take notes. That’s the part the scouts trained me for.” I look up. The stars are scattered like someone dropped a handful of hope across the sky. “But what am I supposed to do here? Am I meant to do something? Or just… be?”

Vega leans gently against my side. His plates are warm. He still doesn’t make a sound.

“You picked me, you know,” I continue. “I woke up and you were already there. Like you’d just been waiting for me to show up.” Still nothing. Just his soft weight against me. “And I don’t know why. But I’m glad.”

That gets me a click. Soft. Gentle. A nighttime kind of sound.

“I think I’m going to stay,” I say, voice barely above a whisper now. “Not forever, maybe. I don’t know. But for now. Until I find something I didn’t know I was looking for, I think.”

Vega clicks again. Then, with the tiniest of hops, he climbs into the tent. I watch, a little stunned and surprised, as he wiggles his way into the edge of my sleeping bag. He settles. Completely. A soft, warm, bug-shaped comma of pure trust.

I smile. Crawl in after him, careful not to disturb anyone. I lie down beside him. The sleeping bag is cold against my cheek, Vega warm against my side. I whisper, “Goodnight, Vega.”

He hums. One note. Like a lullaby that doesn’t need words.

The stars watch as I close my eyes.

Field Notes – Day Three

Location: Eterna Forest, same clearing.

Weather: Mild and sunny with a breeze. Clear sky at night. Stars visible. Perfect light for sketching.

Food Progress:

• first successfully cooked meal
• confirmed edible mushrooms (see: food testing entry)
• added: local nuts and fresh herb
• Caterpies curious, well-fed; Vega identified everything, knows what to avoid

Meal Summary:

• stew of forest findings
• warm and filling
• tasted like I belonged here

Companion Update:

Vega:

• responsive to tone and music
• helped navigate plants
• joined me at night under the stars for the first time
• crawled into my sleeping back out of own volition

Caterpies:

• remained in camp overnight, showed no sighs of distress or territorial behaviour
• curious, easily distracted, but listen to Vega’s cues
• participated in observation and sketching with what I can only describe as unhelpful enthusiasm

Behaviour Summary:

• Small One: curious, clingy
• Middle One: precise, pattern-focused
• Scarred One: cautious, watchful, possibly oldest
• Group Dynamic: they feel like siblings

Personal Notes:

• I am not just surviving, I am learning how to be here
• companions are helping me more than I know how to explain
• still don’t know why I’m here
• but today, I don’t need to know

To Do Tomorrow:

• begin scouting outward
• search for signs of roads, paths, people
• map perimeter, mark trees
• pack camp minimally, maintain ability to return
• continue companion observation

Vega’s asleep in my arm tonight. Caterpies are all accounted for. Forest is calm.

Day Three ends with stars and a warm, fully belly.

That’s enough.

— End Entry

Chapter Text

It comes slowly.

Not like falling. More like sinking into still water. Calm, warm. Strangely weightless. There’s no fear. I know I won’t sink, won’t drown. No sharp edge. No danger. Just a gentle drift, like the world is holding me in its cupped hands and all I have to do is breathe.

At first, all I’m aware of is warmth. My sleeping bag wrapped around me. Vega, curled tight against my chest, his body tickling softly in a rhythm that’s become familiar. Almost instinctual, even. I can feel his tiny heartbeat against my arm. The Caterpies are nearby, too. Soft bugs in the dark, settled into their odd little sleeping spots. The fire is down to embers now. The forest outside is quiet.

Then the air shifts. It’s subtle. Like a gentle breeze moving through a room without opening a door.

Suddenly I’m standing. Barefoot. The ground beneath me is damp with dew and soft with long grass I don’t remember ever walking through. I look up. I’m expecting the stars— and they’re there, but— But closer. Closer than they should be. They don’t sparkle, either. They hover.

Not in the sky.

Around me.

Tiny lights. Floating gently like fireflies that forgot how to blink. Star shaped, round, pale gold, soft white, faint blue. They glow like memories I haven’t had yet. I don’t feel fear. I feel seen. But not watched— witnessed.

I lift a hand slowly and one of the lights drifts closer. It hovers just beyond my fingertips, never really touching, but still radiating warmth that isn’t entirely physical. It feels like recognition. Like a breath held and released.

“Where am I?” I ask.

No voice answers. But something moves inside my chest, just beneath my ribs, like a note struck on an instrument tuned into my thoughts. It vibrates. But not as sound. As meaning.

You are where you are.

That’s not an answer. Not really. But it lands like one, strangely enough. I exhale. The light glows just a little brighter when I do, as if agreeing with my breath.

I think— not with words, not exactly. More like meaning, intent— another question. Am I supposed to do something here?

The lights around me dim. Just for a moment. Then one by one, they brighten again. It feels like a reverse heartbeat.

No.

And then again.

Yes.

Behind him, something moves.

I turn.

There— in the distance, at the crest of a small hill I didn’t know existed here, stands a figure. Small. But might be larger if I were closer. Four-legged. Still. It’s a silhouette against the softest kind of night. A Pokémon? Maybe. It doesn’t glow, though. Doesn’t shimmer. Just stands.

I doesn’t come closer. Watches me. Calm. Steady.

Then, slowly, it turns.

Not to run. Not to flee.

To lead.

I step forward. Barefoot in the grass. My legs don’t feel heavy. Nothing feels heavy. Each step is like walking through a thought.

The Pokémon walks over the hilltop. Disappearing without urgency.

I follow.

The grass grows taller as I go. The stars above me drift lower. The ones behind me fade into the ground like they’ve done their part and are resting now. I can hear something— like my own breath. Echoed from far away.

At the top of the hill, I pause.

And I wake up.

My eyes open slowly.

The fire has gone cold. The tent is quiet. I don’t move right away. Vega is still curled beside me, still sleeping, still warm. He makes a tiny sound, a single soft click, like his dreams aren’t done yet. Outside the tent, the Caterpies stir faintly. One of them shifts against the tent. The rest of the forest hasn’t woken up yet.

But I have.

I don’t feel startled. I don’t feel disoriented like I used to after dreams.

Just… still. Still, like someone pulled me back from somewhere I wasn’t supposed to stay, but was allowed to visit.

The dream is already fading, too. But not in the way dreams usually do. The image of the Pokémon on the hill, the lights around me, the words without words, they’re all still here. Blurred, yes. But I can picture it still. Still feel the same feelings as in the dream. It’s not sharp or urgent. Just present.

“You are where you are,” I say. It feels less like a question and more like a promise.

Vega shifts against my side and I press my hand gently over his shell. I stay like this for a long while, listening to the quiet, until the sky brightens and the air grows warmer, letting the dream linger and settle.

Later, I think, we walk.

A few hours later, I’m packed. Not packed like someone leaving for good. No. Just enough. Just what I need for a short loop, a day trip, a quiet day exploring the area and wandering deeper into the forest. Looking for a path. Berries. People. Something.

The tent says. My bedroll, too. Camp remains— tidy, marked, sheltered— like I’ll be back by nightfall. Which I plan to be. I hope to be— will be.

My bag holds the basics: the cooking pot, some dry herbs wrapped in cloth, a few of the safe mushrooms from yesterday, tools, journal, and of course my water bottle. Filled again by the stream. Vega rides on my shoulder today. He climbed up there as I packed, antennae brushing lightly against my cheek and his little gently arms holding some of my hair, and refused to come down.

Click-click. He sounds determined.

The Caterpie trail around me like they’ve been doing this their whole lives. The middle one weaves in figure eights through moss patches. The scarred one keeps rear guard. And the tiny one darts ahead, always almost tripping over itself in excitement.

I take one last look at the camp.

It’s quiet.

Still.

Ours.

I say, “Be here when we get back,” to the tent like it’s a person. Then I turn toward the tress. Toward the path.

It’s not a proper path yet. We have to make it as we go, marking low branches with strips of bark and tufts of moss, noting down odd tree shapes in the margin of my sketchbook and trying to sketch a crude map as I go. He sun has long since risen, rays of golden light breaking through the canopy like butter melting through toast.

Vega clicks gently every few steps. He’s watching. Listening. He clicks twice when I veer too close to unfamiliar plants. Clicks once when he hears something ahead; usually a Starly. Once a Pidgey.

The forest deepens the further I walk away. Not darker, just denser. Trees lean closer together here. Their trunks wider, bark rougher, patterns swirling like fingerprints. Some twist in spirals, others bend toward like light as if they’re sunflowers.

The ground changes, too. Less moss, more spongey loam, littered with needles and the occasional leaf broad enough to wrap a sandwich in. Faint trails of mushrooms lace the base of trees; tiny shelves and pale fans, orange-capped colonies hiding in the roots. Some of them pulse faintly in the light, like they’re breathing too. Vega says none of them are edible.

A few vines dangle lazily overhead, and scattered petals drift through the air from somewhere I can’t see. Yellow. Soft. Citrus-scented. One brushes my shoulder. I let it stay.

We pass a fallen tree, snapped clean, its inside sprouting something that looks like blue coral. I sketch it briefly. Vaguely. Some things feel like secrets.

The Caterpies stay close. They’re not afraid, not exactly, but they’re all alert. Even the smallest one, in its bottomless curiosity. I think they’re looking to me now. Not just curiosity anymore, but trust. I keep my pace slow and steady for them. I hum sometimes, soft nonsense songs I remember, just to let them know I’m still calm.

By early afternoon, we reach a shallow ridge, where the trees part just enough to let the light gather in the softest of pools.

And then—

There it is. A proper path. Not a big one, though. Not paved. But worn. Used. Dirt packed down where feet— or paws or hooves or from whatever else walks on these paths— have passed. A thread through the woods. Slightly overgrown. But well-treated.

I freeze. The Caterpies bump gently into my legs.

Vega clicks low.

“This is it,” I say.

We don’t go very far. Just far enough to know that it’s real and not a product of a very late onset hallucination caused by the mushrooms. The path leads somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, even someone. I kneel. Place a hand on the dirt. It’s warm. We stay for a moment. Quiet. Listening.

Then I jot down a few notes in my journal:

Day Four

• located travel path (possibly human/trainer-made?) narrow, natural. a desire path? no signage.
• leads east-west
• will explore westward tomorrow

I stop at the ridge where I came from. Look back at the path. The sun is dipping lower now, only a few hours left until it sets. The path calls to me, I think. With promises of something new. But I don’t follow it just yet. Just take it in a little longer. Note the way it dips slightly west. The way the brush opens up around it, like it’s been passed through, again and again.

I promise myself again: tomorrow.

Then I turn back fully.

The Caterpie fall in beside me like they knew the plan before I said it. The smallest one clicks a little and sounds like it’s mimicking Vega. The middle one’s curled around a twig it found and now seems attached to. The scarred one stays close to my heel. Glances behind us every few minutes like it expects something to follow.

Vega clicks from my shoulder. Quiet. It sounds almost thoughtful.

“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.” I walk in silence for a while, then add, “I think we’ll go west tomorrow. See where the path leads. Could be a town. Could be a camp. Could be just another forest.”

Click. A single sound. Amused, maybe.

“But not today. We need our tent and bedroll. And I want to check the stream again. And we need to gather more food first, maybe find a second source of protein. I don’t know if we’ll find anything edible on our way, so I don’t want to leave empty-handed.”

The smallest Caterpie chirps in response. I look down. “No, you’re not trying it first. If we find something new, Vega checks if it’s fine. Even if you volunteered. This isn’t an experiment. I don’t have any antidotes, either. If Vega isn’t absolutely sure, we leave it.”

Click-click-click from Vega. This one definitely is sarcasm.

I smile brightly.

The trees above rustle like they agree.

We reach the clearing just as the sky starts to bleed orange. The tent is still there. Unbothered. Untouched. What little gear we left behind is also still where I left it, not moved a millimetre. He twigs from yesterday’s fire are still laid out in their ring.

Home, for now.

The Caterpies scatter like they’ve punched out of a shift. One flops dramatically onto my bedroll, another climbs halfway up the tent wall before giving up and sulking— if Caterpies can sulk. The scarred one settles down by the fire pit again. Watchful as ever. The twig stays close with its new owner— the one that flopped down. Middle one. I think that might be forever now.

I kneel beside the fire ring. Light it up again. It catches fast.

Warmth blooms around us.

Vega jumps off my shoulder and sits down beside me. No clicks.

The Caterpies arrange themselves around the ring like mismatched stones: the small one is curled up inside the cooking pot again (I gave up), the middle one resting its little head on its stick, and the scarred one is still standing a bit away from us, but it has inched close enough to feel the heat. Steady as always.

I hum. It’s not a song I know. Just the kind of melody that happens when your throat feels warm and your heart’s a little too full and there’s nothing left to say that hasn’t been said with actions.

Vega clicks along. Low. Soft. Like a metronome winding down at the end of the day. It matches my rhythm. Or maybe I’ve matched his.

Above us, the stars are out again.

Same sky.

New world.

And yet. Familiar.

I tilt my head back. Watch them blink. Still no constellations I recognise. Not anymore. Not yet. But one cluster near the treeline looks like a sideways bird, wings outstretched. Another… like a hook, maybe. Or the curve of a sleeping snake. And just to the left of the tallest tree: four stars that almost form a square, with a faint fifth one trailing behind.

The fire pops. The small Caterpie stirs. Sleepily clicking its little antenna against the rim of the pot.

I say, “You don’t have to be useful, you now. You’re allowed to just… be.”

None of them respond with words, but Vega shifts a little closer to me. His antenna brushes my arm. The middle Caterpie breathes out a long, tiny whistly like a leaf sighing.

I look back at the stars. “I think I’m getting better at this.”

The night doesn’t answer. It doesn’t need to, though.

My body is tired. But not the bad kind. The earned kind. The I lived today kind.

I pull my sleeping bag out of the backpack, unroll it slowly. Lay it out outside the tent. I feel like the night will be warm enough for me to sleep under the free sky. Vega doesn’t hesitate to follow once I climbed into it. Settles at my collarbone, head tucked under its antennae like he knows the shape of me by now. The Caterpies shuffle. Reposition. I let them. I trust them.

The fire fades to embers.

And above us, the stars keep watch.

Field Notes – Day Four

Location: Eterna Forest, same clearing

Weather: Clear sky, slight breeze. Warm daylight, warm evening. Night is a little warmer than yesterday. Stars bright.

Day Summary:

• left camp for the first time, travelled with companions
• no issues
• discovered small path a few hours away; human and/or Pokémon made
• important: leads somewhere
• marked and logged it
• intend to walk it tomorrow, after some preparation; see where it leads

Companion Update:

Vega:

• rode on my shoulder all day
• vocal + attentive
• responses still in line with previous emotional cues
• crawled into my sleeping bag again

Caterpies:

• still playful and curious
• middle one has permanently adopted a stick
• small one climbed into the pot again (failed to climb the tent)
• scarred one continues sentinel behaviour, constantly watchful

All seem content and are still choosing to stay.

Personal Notes:

Today felt… gentle, in a way. We just walked, noticed things, ate food we foraged ourselves, and saw a path. Didn’t chase it, though. That feels important, in a way. I can’t quite explain why.

I spoke to them on the way back. I’m pretty sure they can understand every word or maybe they didn’t and I just think they do. But maybe that’s not important at all; maybe just saying things matters. Maybe letting yourself be heard— even without answers— is its own kind of medicine.

We sat around the fire. I hummed. Vega played a little tune of his own. The Caterpies all curled up nearby. No one asked for anything. No one had to.

Stars were out again.

To Do Tomorrow:

• follow the path, west
• bring supplies, stay cautious
• look for signs of people (rest spots, structures, camps)
• keep listening to Vega
• don’t rush

I’m tired but not the kind that hurts. Tonight, I fall asleep feeling full. Not just fed. Held.

Goodnight, forest.

Goodnight, stars.

Goodnight, whoever brought me here.

You were right to do it.

— End Entry

Chapter Text

I wake up slowly. Not because I’m tired, but because I don’t want to leave the warmth just yet. Vega is tucked beneath my arm, warm and still. He hums once. It’s barely audible. More vibration than sound. A low, sleepy kind of acknowledgement of the morning.

Around us, I hear the Caterpie stirring. One of them— probably the small one, trying to climb out of it— knocks over the pot. Again.

The light in the clearing is gold. It wraps around the tent, paints the moss in the softest tones. Everything here is familiar now. The fire ring, the worn stone Vega sat on, the slightly dented patch of earth where the scarred Caterpie held his watch.

I sit cross-legged on the sleeping bag and breathe in the scent of the forest: smoke, bark, crushed leaves and the berry-sweet traces of Oran. It’s quiet. Quiet in that special way mornings are when nothing has woken up too fast.

Breakfast is equally slow.

I warm a few of the last mushrooms in the pot with a handful of the nuts and the very last of yesterday's herbs. Add water. Stir. Let the fire do the rest. The Caterpies gather and circle the pot like pilgrims called to prayer.

Vega watches them quietly from his rock. The scarred Caterpie sits beside him now, perfectly still as if taking notes.

I sip slowly. It’s not gourmet. But it’s warm and I made it and that still feels like a miracle. I share with the others, of course. One by one. Together, we empty the pot. Nobody is rushing to move after, either. We just sit for a while. Let the moment settle.

Then I start packing.

Slowly, though. Not like I’m fleeing. I’m taking my time, making sure everything is in its right place and that I don’t forget anything. I roll the sleeping bag tightly, brushing off the soft moss as I go. Fold it in thirds, then again. Tuck it in the bottom of the pack. I pack the bedroll and the pots. I secure everything tightly.

Vega clicks once. Climbs to my shoulder without being asked.

I take down the tent next. The poles come free easily, the fabric collapsing in on itself like it was ready. I shake it clean and fold it as tightly as I can. It still ends up lopsided. It always does. Then, I grab the cloth pouches and head out to gather some provisions.

When I return, I carefully place the bundles on top of the tent and zip the backpack close.

The fire ring remains. I scatter the ashes gently with a stick, stir the stone circle just enough to let the earth breathe again. Strangely enough, I feel like I should say something. But I don’t.

Instead, I just rest my hand against the ground for a moment. Thankful.

The Caterpies circle me. One sniffs the old sleeping spot. The twig is gently tucked into the side pocket of my backpack by its very proud owner. It can come too. Of course it can.

When the clearing is empty— really empty— I stand still.

Look around. One last, long look. The moss where I first woke up. The spot where I sketched for the first time. The patch of ground where I named Vega. The air where I whispered to the stars. So much of me lives here now. But I’m not meant to stay here. Not forever.

“I’ll come back,” I say.

Vega clicks.

I take one last step toward the stream, refill my water, and then return to the clearing’s edge, where the trees thicken and the light changes.

I breathe in once. Long. Slow.

Then I turn.

And together, we walk.

I place each foot carefully. The path is still not walked-in, despite me following yesterday's steps, and the undergrowth curling softly back into place overnight. The Caterpies follow in silence, bouncing slightly with each step. Their antennae twitch like they’re reading the air. Vega clicks once.

The morning stretches gently around us. Hours later, we arrive at the ridge again, and yesterday’s path appears between the trees.

But today, the forest smells different. Older. Deeper. Of bark and lichen and the distant bite of pine and damp stone. The light changes too. It softens through the canopy into soft strips of gold and green. Everything looks filtered. Slowed. Even the chirping of birds and Pokémon sounds hushed, like they’ve noticed me and decided not to startle me away just yet.

We pass a tree with bark slashed in clean stokes: three vertical lines, shallow and spaced. Maybe an Ursaring? Or a Sandshrew? Do they even live in Eterna Forest? I pause. Press my fingers to it gently. It’s old. Moss has started to fill in the cuts. It was left a long time ago, then.

Further on, we find a small slope. I guide the Caterpies down one by one, catching the smallest as it almost tumbles down. It chirps at me like it meant to. The scarred one climbs down last, slow and entirely unbothered.

The path curves near a shallow stream, barely wider than my boots. I kneel to touch the water. It’s cold. Clear. A tiny silver flicker darts through the ripples. Gone before I can see what it was. Maybe a tiny fish? Maybe something else. We don’t cross the stream, though, and instead keep following the path. I do mark it; another small thing I now know exists.

There’s a clearing up ahead. Not a big one, not camp worthy. But it opens the sky just enough to let slips of sunlight spill through the trees and fall on something small and pale.

I approach it carefully. The Caterpies fan out, curious.

It’s a feather. Long and curved and shimmering faintly green at the edges. Not a bird I know. Maybe not a bird at all. I pick it up. It’s soft between my fingers. The quill is strong, almost metallic. It bends but doesn’t break. Vega clicks twice. Interested. I hold the feather up to the light, watch the way it shifts colour.

I slide it onto my journal like a pressed flower.

A few hours later, we stop at a fallen tree stretched across the trail like a bench placed there for travellers who need to rest.

I sit.

Vega jumps down into my lap. The Caterpies scatter a little. The smaller two climb the log almost instantly, while the scarred one stays on the ground, just a little ahead of us, scanning the trees and bushes.

I pull out the journal and write:

Field Notes – Day Five (Midday Entry)

Location: on the trail west of camp, Eterna Forest

Weather: mild, cool under tress, sunlight

Findings:

• old tree markings: three slashes, moss already growing
• small stream
• found a pale feather in a small clearing (stored between journal pages, sketch later)

Companions:

• Vega: alert, engaged, clicked at feather
• Caterpies: energetic as always

Personal Notes:

• stopped to rest
• forest feels different here but not unfriendly
• pace feels right, will keep going

— End Entry

After a few more minutes of break, we leave the log behind like a bookmark in a place I’ll return to someday. Vega climbs back onto my shoulder. It feels like instinct now. He fits there like he’s always meant to sit there. The Caterpies follow in a loose formation. The smallest one keeps trying to catch falling leaves mid-air, but has had no success so far.

The path starts shifting, stretching wider. The canopy overhead starts thinning, too, letting through more soft light, more warmth. Not a sudden change, but a slow unravelling. Like the forest has loosened its grip, like it’s gently giving us back the sky.

And then— above us— a rush of sound.

A flock.

Starlys.

They pass overhead like a wave of breath. Low and fast and loose in their formation. The sudden burst of wings does make the Caterpies freeze mid-step. The smallest one practically flattens to itself into the dirt.

I shift a bit, shielding the Caterpies, otherwise just watch.

Their feathers catch the light in flickers. Slate grey and soft white, the undersides almost glowing. One veers slightly lower, close enough for me to see the glint in its eye before it banks upward again and rejoins the flock.

Gone in seconds. But they leave something behind: that sharp, electric sort of feeling in your chest when something wild brushes close and doesn’t stop.

Vega clicks. Once. Not an alarm, though.

We continue.

The trees here are taller and older. Less tangled, too. The ground is smoother now, more open underfoot with wide patches of dirt and with leaf litter crunched dry by wind. More light. More colours. Bits of wildflowers. New kinds of moss. Something yellow and bright blooms near the base of a crooked stump.

I stop. Kneel. Sketch it quick.

The Caterpies investigate. The small one sniffs, prods, and nearly knocks the while plant over trying to climb it. I gently redirect it with the end of my pencil..

A few minutes later, we move onward. The wind picks up in slow pulses and brushes through the canopy like someone combing the treetops with their fingers. I hear distant Pokémon calls. I don’t recognise any right away. Just voices out there.

I keep walking.

Then—

A fence.

The fence runs along the right side of the path and vanishes into the trees ahead. Beyond it, the forest thins. The ground opens up a bit, cleared. Gently so. Not by hooves or paws, but by hands. Tools. Even the greenery is differently here. There’s a break in the green where people and/or Pokémon once passed through. Not hurriedly or recklessly, but often enough to leave an imprint behind.

A footpath cuts off the trail, barely visible. But there. It curves slightly, just out of view and toward something I can’t see from here.

I look at Vega. He watches me, head titled.

“Think we follow it?”

He clicks once. Agreement, I think.

The Caterpies stay close. The scarred one moves ahead a step, then stops, glances back at me like it’s waiting for permission to scout.

I nod. It moves forward.

We step off the main path.

The grass is shorter here. Not mown, though. Not neat, either. Walked. Pressed flat in places. Crushed wildflowers are underfoot. I crouch for a second and pick one up. Not to keep, just to look. Pale blue petals, barely open. I let it fall back.

Further ahead, the path curves again. One more gentle bend and—

And then we see it.

A roof. Low. Looks simple but sturdy. And looks like it was made of stone or wood; I can’t quite tell from here. But definitely made. Not a ruin. Not a camp. A proper structure. House. It’s nestled near a stream, too. It’s wide and slow-moving. There’s a tree stump out front, cut flat, ringed with small stones. A place to sit? A marker? A shrine?

The wind changes slightly. I smell faint ash. Like a fire once lit, a meal once cooked. Someone has been here. Maybe is here.

I still.

The Caterpies gather close. Vega leans against my head.

I take a deep breath. Step forward.

And the forest does not stop me.

The house itself is simple. Solid in a way most things in the wild aren’t. It doesn’t tower— it’s maybe twice my height. Smaller than regular houses. It stands half-sheltered by the slope of a hill and a line of trees bending slightly in its direction like they’ve decided to protect it.

The path leads directly to the cabin’s door: a work plank of wood, faded from weather, the grain raised with time. No handle. Just a push-panel. No signage either. But this isn’t a shop. It doesn’t sell anything. It’s not for anyone but for whoever made it.

I can hear the stream, even from here. It hums steadily. Slow. Shallow. Wide enough to glimmer, but not in a rush. I see a few flat stones laid out near the bank, half-sunk. Placed, not random. A washing spot, maybe. Or somewhere to just sit and watch the current pass.

A slow fence rings the hut itself, but not the kind of fence that says stay out. More like the kind of fence that says this space is held. There’s no gate. Just an open space like the fence knew someone might come through and decided not to argue.

I step through.

Vega shifts slightly on my shoulder. He’s quiet. Watching. But not tense.

The Caterpies spread out, but don’t wander far. The scarred one circles th perimeter, antenna low. The others keep close. Their steps are slow. Careful.

The door is closed, but not locked.

I raise a hand. Let it rest on the wood. It’s warm— sun-warm.

I knock. Once. Then twice more, softer.

Silence.

I wait.

Still nothing.

So, I speak. Low. Just loud enough for whoever— or whatever— might be in there, listening. “Hello? Anyone home? I’m not lost but I don’t really know where I’m going. Other than west, that is. I found the path and it led me here.”

No answer.

I’m not scared, but I still take a deep breath. The kind you take before crossing into something new.

I push the door open. It doesn’t creak. Doesn’t groan. It just swings, like it’s always been ready to move.

Inside, it’s dim. Just one room. A table with marks scratched into the wood. Another one in the beneath the window. A small cot beneath a dirty window. A small chest beneath the bed. A stone fireplace with no embers, but the faintest scent of old smoke still lingering. It smells like dry bark and ink, with the faintest traces of smoke and tea.

And shelves.

Dozens of small wooden shelves, filled with notebooks. Thin ones. Thick ones. Some are leather-bound, others stitched from scrap and thread. Each one is labelled in tight, looping handwriting.

I step inside.

Vega clicks once. A soft, low sound.

I say, “This was a researcher’s place.”

It’s not a lab, I don’t think. Not a professor’s outpost, either. Just… someone who watched, I think. Someone who walked. Who wrote things down. I walk to the table. A book lies open. Faded but not ruined.

I don’t touch it just yet. Just look. Sketches. A drawing of a Starly in flight. Labelled feather patterns. Notes about nesting elevation.

My breath catches in my throat.

This was someone like me.

Maybe still someone.

I say, “Hello?” Just once more.

Still no answer.

I take another step. My boot creak faintly on the wood. The Caterpies don’t enter all the way, but linger at the doorway like they understand the threshold means something. The smallest one peers in from behind the frame. Vega shifts on my shoulder again but doesn’t jump off.

The table in the centre draws me in next. It looks used. The surface is scratched and ink-stained. There’s a circular mark where a cup might have used to sit. A few curled leaves have dried in the corner like the researcher couldn’t help but press one in the middle of taking notes.

I place a hand on it. The wood is smooth in the middle. Worn by time and elbows and fingers and hands that turned pages over and over and over again. This wasn’t just a desk. This was a home for thoughts and theories.

I look to the shelves. So many books. Some bound in string. Others bulging at the seams, overfilled with extra pages tucked between their spines. There’s no clear order I can see. No Dewey Decimal, no colour-coded spines. Just tucked in without rhyme or reason.

I walk to shelf closest to the window and let my finger trail along the edges of the books.

Then I find it—

One that feels like it’s meant to be seen. It’s different. Cleaner. Set apart but not hidden. The cover is pale green, the title pressed in soft gold writing that catches the light just enough to be noticed.

No named author. Just a single word: Continue.

I blink.

Then open it.

Handwriting.

And I can read it. All of it. Not just understand. Not just stumble through it. I know it. Instinctively. The loops, the slant of the letters, the little hesitations in the curves. It reads like my own handwriting.

It hits me suddenly. I speak the language here. Read it. Write it. Think in it.

I look at Vega. “Convenient,” I say.

He clicks twice. Possible translation: Obviously.

I turn my attention back to the book. The first page is blank. Then, on the second page, written in ink:

If you’re reading this, then you found the path. That’s enough. This place is yours if you need it.

I had to leave. Maybe you will too, one day.

But until then: stay. Rest. Watch. Write. Keep your eyes open.

The forest sees you.

— L

That’s it. No conditions, no expectations, no instructions. Just permission.

I close the book slowly. Press my hand flat on the cover. Turn back toward Vega.

He stares at me. Then— click.

I smile. “I think someone left this for people like us.”

I slide the green notebook in a side pocket of my backpack. For now. So I can keep it close. This notebook isn’t the kind of thing you shelve. It’s the kind of thing you carry. Next, I step toward the cot in the corner, which I hadn’t seen from the door. Brush some dust and leaves from the mattress. It’s firmer than I expected. Blankets are folded neatly at the foot. It’s simple wool but clean and warm. The pillow’s a little flat. Smells of sun-warmed fabric, old books, and lavender.

The window above the bed is smudged and I wipe it with the hem of my sleeve. Light pours in a little more freely now. It touches the wood. The corners. The little hooks near the fireplace where someone might’ve once hung cups and tools.

Vega hops down from my shoulder and walks the floor in slow circles. Clicks to himself. The Caterpies finally enter, one by one. Small one first (of course). They investigate the legs of the cot, the corners of the shelves, a small cracked mug still sitting on a windowsill with a bit of moss inside. Scarred one stakes out a spot near the fireplace and settles without a sound.

This place is ours now. Being here doesn’t feel like trespassing, even with permission. It feels like someone expected me.

I unpack.

Carefully. Slowly. I unfurl the sleeping bag onto the cot. Hang the extra clothes from a peg by the door. Lay my notebook and pen gently on the desk, next to what’s already there; inkpots, an old ruler, a flat stone that might’ve been used as a paperweight.

The pot goes near the fireplace. The cooking tools beside it. The food I collected are tucked into a little wooden bowl L— or someone else— left behind with dried berries still clinging to the rim. I taste one. Still good. Sweet.

I pull out the chest. Open it. I half-expect cobwebs or some sort of disappointment. Instead I find a stack of folded cloth, neatly wrapped packets of pressed leaves, a wooden box containing a flint striker and matches. And—

Some flour in a corner.

I blink. Smile. I think I’ll try to bake some bread at some point.

Then— the last thing I’m doing today, I think— I return to the books. Start with the spines that draw me in the most. It’s not the neat ones, or the crooked ones, but the ones stuffed full of bookmarks and leaf scraps and bits of yarn like someone had a system only they understood.

I pull down three, for now.

One is filled with sketches of bird Pokémon— Starlys, Pidgeys, Wingulls. And even something I think might be a Rufflet. Each sketch is labelled with great care. There’s notes about migratory patterns, too. Nesting preferences. And even what kind of call they make before rain.

Another book is all plants. Herbal diagrams. Cross-sections of root bulbs. Taste notes. Warnings. One page is marked “do not trust the purple ones, no matter how nice they smell.” I underline that.

The third book is… stranger. Less research and more… reflection, I think fits best. A mix of sketches and poetry. Short paragraphs. Unfinished thoughts. The kind of snippets and thoughts that used to fill my notes app on my phone. One page just reads:

Sometimes I think the Pokémon choose us not because we’re worthy, but because they’re lonely too.

And maybe it’s enough that we choose them back.

I read it twice. Then close the book gently and lay it on the table beneath the window.

Outside, the light is fading already; the sky brushed in soft gold and pale blue. The Caterpies are curling up near the fireplace— which I still need to light. Vega has taken over a windowsill. His antennae are slowly swaying like he’s listening to the breeze.

I smile, light the fire, then sit down on the cot and open the book about Pokémon.

Field Notes – Day Five

Location: Cabin; west of trail, near stream

Weather: Mild and bright all day. Wind picked up slightly at sunset.

Discovered:

• Cabin, fully intact and well-maintained; left behind for people to find
• Journal named “Continue”
• Included message from the owner of the cabin, L
• Entry says this cabin was passed down and meant to be found

Interior:

• Cot (used, clean, comfortable)
• Tables with marks, sketches
• Shelves filled with journals and books
• Tools for cooking and fire-starting

Personal Notes:

• Made myself at home; doesn’t feel wrong, feels like joining in
• Explored a few journals; one about mostly bird Pokémon, one about plants, and one that’s a journal for thoughts (this one feels closest)
• Favourite quote: “Maybe it’s enough that we choose them back.”
• I wonder who L is; maybe I’ll meet them someday.
• I’m not worried or scared. I’m… grateful.

Companions:

• Vega claimed a windowsill for himself, then joined me again
• Caterpies found comfortable spots immediately (small one is back in the pot)
• Small one also kept trying to climb a bookshelf; no success so far

To-Do Tomorrow:

• Explore stream
• Search for food, tools, possible trails
• See what else was left behind
• Take time, this place doesn’t demand rush

I feel like this place was waiting. And today, we arrived.

— End Entry

Chapter Text

The sunlight wakes me before the birds do.

It filters in through the small window above the cot, the kind of light that moves slowly and touches everything it lands on like it’s blessing it. My eyes open slowly. My breath catches. It feels like the kind of stillness that follows being held, even if no one’s there.

Vega is already awake. He’s sitting at the at the end of the bed, antennae twitching slightly, watching the room like he’s memorising it. He clicks once when I sit up. A soft one. Morning greeting.

The Caterpies are curled in a tangled line just below the desk, heads tucked in, limbs slack. They look like someone dropped a couple of squishy green socks and forgot about them. Peaceful.

I stretch. Yawn. Then I swing my legs over the edge of the cot and say, half to myself, half to Vega, “I think we’ll stay here for a while.”

Vega doesn’t click. Just nods. A little tilt of his head. Like this has always been the plan.

The cabin smells like dust and wood and something almost sweet. Dried berries, maybe. I open the storage chest again. Besides the flour, no food has been left behind. And I only have a little bit of my gathered food left; I’ll need to forage again. And if the stream is that close…

I glance toward the door. “We’ll check the stream out today,” I say to Vega, then to the Caterpies. “If there’s fish, maybe we can catch some. Also learn what we can. Use this place. Honour it. L left it behind for this reason, I think.”

The smallest Caterpie stirs first, rolling dramatically onto its back and chirping like it just woke up from a three-year nap. The others shift. Stretch. Blink slowly. They gather around me as I start breakfast: some of the herbs, some leftover nuts, and a bit of berry mash. I toss it all in the pot with a bit of water, start the fire, and let it simmer for a bit.

It’s still rough, but it’s warm. And feels like a meal.

I sit cross-legged on the cabin floor, eating slowly.

Three green bodies sit across from me. Three different eyes. Three different personalities. Three distinct Pokémon.

It’s time, I think. No. I feel.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ve been calling you Caterpie One, Two, and Three in my head and journal, and that’s rude. You’ve been following me around, protecting me— in a way— eating my food and sketching paper, and made me laugh. It’s time for names.”

They blink at me.

“I thought maybe stars. Because, you know, Vega—” Click. Vega approves. Of course he does. “—But honestly… I think you need names that fit you. Not a theme.” I point to the smallest one, who’s already gnawing on the edge of a leaf it definitely shouldn’t be eating. “You’re Pip. Because you’re small, chaotic, and that is absolutely the name of something that would dive headfirst into a bucket of paint.”

Pip squeaks joyfully and immediately falls on its back.

Next I look at the middle one. Watchful, methodical, and somehow still attached to that weird twig it’s been carrying for three days. “You… are Thimble. Because you’re precise. And weirdly domestic. And I feel like you’d darn socks if I taught you how.”

Thimble sniffs the twig. Clicks. Accepts.

And finally, I turn to the last Caterpie. Scarred, strong, the one who always walks behind or beside me. Never in front. “You’re Bran. Like the thing left behind in wheat. The part people forget to name. But you’re what keeps it together.”

Bran doesn’t move. Just looks at me. Then nods. Yes.

We eat the rest of breakfast in a quiet that feels like as if time slowed just to sit with us.

Pip finds a different stick under the cot and gets it stuck in its antenna. Thimble methodically gathers crumbs into a leaf and folds it in half like it's organizing leftovers. Bran sits beside the fireplace as always, watching the door.

I stand. Stretch again. Sling my empty backpack over my shoulder. “We’ll check the stream. Maybe there’s fish. Maybe there’s more to forage.” I glance at the shelves. “And then I want to read. All of it. Every notebook. Every single page.”

The door creaks slightly as I push it open. The morning air greets me like it’s been practicing for this very moment. There’s a softness I hadn’t noticed yesterday. Cooler now and carrying the scent of water and earth and old bark. It smells like moss that’s just beginning to dry, like fern-stems snapped underfoot, like the cleanest breath of air I’ve ever taken in my life.

I leave the door open, then am about to head out for the stream.

Vega settles into place on my shoulder again. Pip rolls excitedly out the door, then rolls back in like it forgot something (it did not), then finally manages to follow. Thimble carries its trusted stick. Bran follows behind. Never in a hurry.

The path toward the stream isn’t marked but it’s obvious. Grass bends naturally in that direction. The light shifts slightly as we walk; gold dappling through tall trees, pooling in low spots like a lazy tide. No thorns. No underbrush here. It’s like the land around the cabin has agreed to make things easier for us, even if just a little.

I take my time. Let my boots press softly into the earth. I crouch once to check out a cluster of mushrooms: round, white-speckled, the kind that look edible but lie about it. Vega clicks once. Denied. I keep walking.

Birds call overhead. Something high-pitched and bubbly. Chatter, I think.

Then I hear it. It’s low at first. Not a roar. Not even a trickle. More like a low, constant hum, like a memory spoken too far away to hear clearly. The trees open a bit. Not wide but filtered, in a way. Leaves shift in curtains, light shimmers across the path.

And then— there.

The stream.

It’s wider than I expected. Still narrow enough to cross in three large steps, but deep in the centre. The water is clear. Not quite glassy, but full of movement, surface broken by tiny curls and ripples. The beach is stones— smooth, pale pebbles— and soft mud, with some green peeking through every now and then. Soft moss crawls up the trees.

I step to the edge of the river and crouch, resting on my heels. I dip my fingers in.

Cold. But not numbing.

Vega hops from my shoulder to a flat stone nearby. Taps his foot against it in rhythm with the current. Pip immediately launches itself at the water and misjudges the depth entirely, plunging  its face in before popping back out with a furious squeak. Thimble just sits and watches. Bran remains on the bank, scanning the trees. Still. Watchful.

I smile. Slowly, softly. Without realising it at first.

There’s something about this— this mossy bank, this moving water, this sudden and strange yet comforting sense of steadiness— that feels a lot like the clearing; like this is another place welcoming me home.

I glance to the side and there—

A long stick. No… a rod. Fishing rod. Propped between two rocks. Worn handle, line still coiled neatly. Waiting.

I walk over and lift it gently. It’s lightweight. Old. But clean. Oiled. Clearly taken good care of. There’s even a little tin nearby. It’s rusted, dented, but not empty. Inside: hooks. Line. A tiny knife. A folded note, water-stained at the edge.

If you need this, it’s yours.
If not, leave it for someone who does.
— L

Of course.

Of course it’s L’s.

I sit down on the bank, the rod across my lap. The grass is cool beneath me, the water murmuring steadily beside us. My fingers trace the grain of the handle. “I think we’re going to be okay,” I say.

Pip sneezes. Thimble folds a leaf in half. Bran looks at me for a long moment, then shifts a little closer. Vega clicks once. Satisfied.

I set the rod down next to me— unsure whether I’d be catching an actual fish or if Pokémon are the only animals here— I watch my companions for a second longer: Pip’s found a pile of wet leaves and is trying to build a tower, Thimble has left its leaf behind and is very seriously placing small stones in a perfect row along the edge of the stream. Bran is still watching. And Vega is perching on a stump.

I open my journal. Pull out my pen and let my hand move.

First, the stream. I draw it curling through the forest like a vein. Narrow, winding, alive. It threads between roots and stones. Light glints where it breaks over shallow bends. I shade the areas where the trees crowd in close and the water darkens.

Next, I draw the rod. It’s propped between two moss-covered rocks. Angled just so. I sketch it quickly. Too straight, probably.

Then, a little map. From memory. A shaky line from the cabin to the water’s edge. I mark the mushrooms, a bent log, a rock that definitely looks like a face if you squint hard enough. It’s probably not accurate, but it knows where it’s going.

Pip takes up a whole corner: half-submerged, water dripping off its antenna, screeching at the water. Its expression is all fury. I add a few motion lines. Pip deserves drama.

Lastly, the plants. I sketch broad leaves. Some clustered in spirals. Others have thin stems like threads. One has little buds that look strangely like teeth. I circle that one. Add a note: probably carnivorous.

I pause, pen still in hand. Vega clicks once. I think he agrees.

Then, I glance at the stream again. Something flickers beneath the surface— long and narrow. Not a Magikarp, Goldeen, Seaking, Chinchou, Feebas or whatever else lives here. Not even a Barboach. A proper fish. Just a fish. Silvery with a spot near the tail and tiny eyes that look startled even when still.

It’s beautiful. And edible.

I exhale.

“I can do this,” I say.

The Caterpies look at me. Vega hops down from the stump and walks to my knee. One click. Ready.

I tuck the journal back into my pack, stand, and lift the fishing rod with both hands. It’s well-balanced. The reel moves with only a little protest. The stream bends gently at the far edge; deeper there. A few overhanging branches for cover. I take a few steps closer. Careful.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

I cast the line. It lands with a soft plunk, just past the bend. The water ripples outward like a ring of breath.

I wait.

The line floats in the water lazily, drifting about slightly as the stream carries it along. The bobber bobs, like it’s breathing with water.

I sit back down, rod in hand, elbows on knees. Vega curls up beside me, his antennae lightly brushing my arm every now and then. He hums under his breath. A soft, simple sound. It’s comforting.

The Caterpies spread out nearby. Pip has returned to its leaf tower and is now adding pebbles, which is going rather poorly. Thimble is watching. Bran has found its spot, half-turned toward the water like he might body-check anything that gets too close.

Bird call above us. Different ones, now. It doesn’t sound like morning voices, more like a slower, lazier kind of midday song. One’s song almost sounds like speech, then vanishes into the treetops.

The water glimmers. Something passes underneath the bobber. Too quick. Too shy. It doesn't bite.

I don't mind.

I lean back and settle against the ground. The sunlight warms my shoulders and back. A breeze weaves through the grass.

I think about L. Did they sit here, just like this? Did they cast the line, waiting for something specific to bite? Or did they just need some quiet? A moment alone, with the water saying nothing and everything all at once?

Maybe this was the only place that felt quiet enough to breathe. Maybe that’s why they left the cabin behind. Not because they were done with it, but because they knew someone else might need this exact moment. A line in the water. Friends at your side.

Then—

The bobber twitches.

It dips. Once. Twice. A pause— Then again.

I wait.

Then— I pull.

The line tugs back. The rod bends, light but firm. Something is there.

It’s not a trashing fight. Not drama. Just a weight. A wriggle. A life pulling back, briefly, instinctively. I draw it gently. Slowly. And there— on the end of the line— a small silver fish. Ordinary. Gleaming. Its eyes blink slowly in the sunlight. Its scales catch the light like brushed steel.

A normal fish.

Not a Pokémon. Not a puzzle.

Just food.

But the ordinary is no less valuable than the extraordinary.

I hold the rod still, let the line swing gently toward the moss beside me. I crouch and scoop the fish off the hook with careful hands.

“You’ll feed all of us,” I say softly.

I thank it. Quietly. Because this world deserves gratitude. Then I tuck it into a cloth wrap beside me. Cool and safe. The stream returns to its rhythm. The wind continues its path. The Caterpies glance over; Bran nods once. Vega clicks gently.

I don’t cast again; the fish will be enough for now and any others I can catch as I need them.

Instead, I gather the few things I brough— and the rod— and start back toward the cabin. We return with the sun still hanging above the treetops, gold light caught at the edges of every branch. The Caterpies are trailing behind, more tired than before, but content. Vega rides on my shoulder again, clicking once every few steps like a metronome winding down.

The cabin greets us like it never noticed we left.

I start the fire slowly. It takes to attempts, but the moss catches and the flame breathes to life in the fireplace like it remembers how to be alive. The sticks catch fire quickly afterwards. I clean the fish with my small knife. It smells mild and clean when I when I skewer it and brace the stick above the fire.

I boil some of the mint with water in a tin cup, let it steep while the fish roasts. We eat together.

It’s delicious.

After dinner, we settle down. The Caterpies curl up near the fireplace and fall asleep quickly. Vega sits in the crook of my arm, head pressed into the side of my neck like he’s reading over my shoulder.

I open one of the books I pulled earlier from the shelf; the one on plants. It doesn’t have a title on the front. Just a brown spine and a single leaf stitched into the leather. Inside, the pages old and filled. There are sketches. Beautiful crisp drawings done in ink and gentle watercolour. Handwritten labels. Smudges from dirt and rain. Pressed leaves and scraps of bark paper with notes scribbled in the margins.

I flip to a page marked with a frayed blue ribbon:

Streammint

Edible. Sharp scent. Boils into clear tea that settles the stomach. Grows in shallow water, partial sun. Pokémon who enjoy it: Lotad, Deerling, certain Caterpie (mine did).

Other uses:

• Wards off biting insects
• Scent marker for trails (carries well)
• Crushed leaves soothe burns

Siltroot

Grows in shade, root-heavy, bitter to taste. Roasted properly, it tastes like parsnip. Otherwise: garbage.

Drying method:

• Slice into thin coins
• Leave on sun-warmed rock
• Takes 2-3 days

Worth it.

Trust me.

There are some recipes tucked between plant notes.

“Eat only after walking all day.”

“Best shared beside water.”

“Add a pinch of salt if your companion looks tired.”

I lose track of time.

But not in a scary “oh my god where did the time go?” way. In the best way. The kind where you look up and realise the fire’s burned lower, the sun’s set, your heart feels a little fuller, and you just feel at ease. When you’re doing something you enjoy without the guilt of not doing something you should taking away from it.

I close the book softly. Vega presses closer. “We’re going to be okay,” I say.

Field Notes – Day Six

Location: Cabin and nearby stream, Eterna Forest?

Weather: Gentle breeze, mild sun, cool under trees. Clear all day.

Light: Soft gold in the morning, bright by midday

Morning:

• woke up in the cabin with light through the window
• felt still, rooted, at peace
• named the Caterpies:
  • Pip: the small, chaotic one
  • Thimble: the middle one, methodical, loyal to one twig
  • Bran: the sentinel, the constant; feels like quiet armour

Decision:

• stay
• not forever, but for now
• read, learn

Streamside:

• walked to the stream with the group
• discovered old fishing rod, left by L
• sketched surroundings

Catch:

• one silver fish
• gave thanks before wrapping

Return to Cabin:

• cooked fish over fire, quiet meal with full group
• Pip tried to steal some of the fish, failed

Evening Reading:

• Read L’s book on plants :
  • Streammint: tea, burns, trail-scent
  • Siltroot: edible, needs care

To-Do Tomorrow:

• return to stream with journal
• begin sketching and noting nearby plants
• forage if possible, try to get more supplies
• read more
• teach Pip not to eat leaves until after I draw them

Day Six ends with my hands warm, my body fed, and the world gently opening around me.

— End Entry

Chapter Text

The sky is already pale when I step outside and the air is cool enough to raise the hairs on my arm but not enough to chase me back in. The cabin behind me is still. The door creaks just slightly as I close it behind us.

Vega’s already sitting on my shoulder again, clicking happily. Pip hops beside my boots, apparently energised by nothing but existence. Thimble follows with a practiced sort of precision. Bran takes up the rear.

We don’t go to the stream today. Not yet, at least.

First, we veer east. Around the cabin. Into the pockets of forest I haven’t explored yet.

It’s quieter here. Less wind. More shade. The ground is incredibly soft beneath the moss and the trees are spaced just enough to walk between them without needing to push or duck. My boots leave faint imprints in the leaf litter, which are soon swept away by the wind, as if the forest has learned to hold things lightly.

I spot something. Tall purple stalks. Capped with fan-shaped leaves and small white flowers like stars. I pause.

“That’s… that’s in the book,” I say. I crouch. Check the stem. Slightly ridged. Flower scent? Sweet but faint. One leaf’s been nibbled… and not by Pip this time.

I open the book. There it is.

Veilroot 

• Edible root, bitter raw, mellow when boiled
• Leaves not toxic but not tasty
• Flowers attract Beedrill. (Do not harvest during bloom if you value your peace.)

Best harvested in the early morning, before the sun hits the patch fully. Can be roasted over coals for mild, nutty taste. Pairs well with Siltroot and fresh mint.

I exhale, half a laugh. “I know something.”

Vega clicks softly. He sounds proud. Bran nods once. Thimble gently adjusts my pen on the page as if I drew the plant slightly wrong (I probably did).

I dig one up gently with my small knife, wrap the root in cloth and leave the others untouched. Just one is enough. I can get more if I need it.

We keep going.

We pass under a low arch of twisted branches, almost a tunnel even. Sunlight slips through in diagonal beams, catching little motes in the air. I stop often. Sketch here. Note something there. The more I look, the more I see.

There—

Siltroot. Again! This time, with the leaves just starting to curl in the way the book described. I pluck a few, pack them in the cloth with the Veilroot. Roast later. And there— Starcap Mushrooms. They’re faintly luminescent. Fragile. Vega clicks once. Not today, I think it means. I sketch it instead.

A bit further ahead, there’s Streammint. It’s creeping along a shaded hollow near a stone outcrop. I recognise it immediately. I smile. I don’t even need the book for this one. It’s familiar now.

Pip tries to step on it. I redirect it gently.

Eventually, we reach a small rise in the forest floor. A knoll, maybe ten feet high. Covered in moss and fern. At the top, the trees part just enough to let me see the sky. And the cabin.

It’s small from here, tucked beneath the trees like a secret. Smoke curls from the chimney in a thin thread, pale against the bright blue of the sky. I can see the path winding toward it. From up here, it looks like a suggestion more than anything else, with stones and wildflowers following alongside it.

I pause here for a moment. Just breathe. The air smells like pine and something warm; spring, old leaves, and the faint sweetness of blooming things.

The way back to the cabin is softened by morning light that’s grown warmer and golden ribbons spill through the trees. It touches every leaf edge, every fern curl, every. We walk slowly. My bag is now a little fuller with the foraged goods and my shoulders are warmed by Vega, familiar now like breath.

We don’t take the exact same path back. I follow a slightly wider arc around the tree line, letting instinct guide me, trusting my eyes and instinct to tell me if something feels too unfamiliar. It doesn’t. It all feels like it was waiting for me to notice it.

But then—

A rustle nearby—

Just ahead.

I slow down. Step lightly. Motion with one hand for the Caterpie to hold back. Bran already has, of course. Thimble tucks Pip gently under a leaf. Vega leans forward.

Then—

Wings.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just the quiet pulse of something gliding above.

I look up, and there—

Two Pokémon in flight. Not Starly this time. Chatot. Its bright, multicoloured feathers catch the light: blue wings, yellow chests, and a green stomach. Where the Starlys cut quick lines through the air, these two drift like leaves.

One flutters to a stop on a high branch just overhead. Its pink beak tilts in my direction, and the strange, musical note on its head bobs slightly, once, twice, as it turns, watching me with bright, curious eyes.

I stop completely. Just breathe.

“Good morning,” I say.

The Chatot blinks slowly, then preens a feather, utterly unbothered. The other continues down the tree line, its shadow gliding over the moss as it passes.

Pip lets out a tiny squeak. The Chatot swivels to look. Pip freezes, halfway through trying to hide behind my boot. They regard each other for a long moment, then the bird looks away, bored, and takes flight again.

We watch it fly away, then continue.

The cabin comes into view slowly. Not suddenly. More like remembering something after forgetting why you walked into the room in the first place. A puff of wind stirs the leaves across the path, and I pause just before stepping into the clearing.

Because I see it.

A single, fluttering figure by the edge of the roof. Delicate. Pale wings rimmed in gold, drifting like a leaf caught in a warm current.

Cutiefly.

It’s tiny. Almost not there at all.

It hovers above the flowerbed I didn’t notice before; low to the ground, where some wild blooms have taken root beside the cabin’s foundation stones. It darts. Sips. Darts again. Quick little buzzes of colour and light.

I kneel. Slowly. Vega doesn’t move. The Caterpies freeze like statues behind me.

The Cutiefly hums softly. Not a sound. Not exactly. More like a feeling that presses against the air.

I don’t move.

I just watch.

And it lets me.

It hovers near a flower. Lands briefly, wings outstretched like spun glass, catching the light. The brown loop markings shimmer faintly as it shifts, almost like it knows I’m watching. A beat, no more. Then it lifts again, a blur of gold and pale yellow. It spins. Once. Then disappears into the trees.

“This place,” I say, “just keeps giving.”

I sit just outside the cabin, my back against the wood, knees up, journal opened on my lap. The others gather quietly around me. Find their spots: Vega sits down on a flat stone, antennae twitching in the breeze; Pip throws itself on its back in the flowerbed; Thimble curls into a comma near my boot; Bran sits down near the fence. I flip to a blank page and sketch the basic outline of the Cutiefly first, while it’s still fresh. Its body was small, almost bulb-like, but with an odd grace. Its wings are extended far beyond what looked proportional, glowing with gold, like the last light before dusk.

I shade in the edges of wings delicately, just enough to suggest their fragility. I leave room for colour. For if I ever get colours. But for now, pencil lines and care will be enough.

Above the sketch, I write:

Cutiefly (seen near cabin)

Size: palm-width

Wings: pale, brown-spiralled, gold-rimmed, semi-translucent

Movement: floating, calm

Behavioural Notes:

• approached wildflower bed by stone foundation
• did not startle when I approached
• watched Pip briefly, did not flee
• hovered long enough to see wing patterns. intentional?

Beneath that, I add a soft border of leaf shapes. Not stylised, just the ones nearby. Just the way the forest framed it.

I close the journal and press it to my chest.

When we walk back inside a few hours later, the cabin welcomes me back easily. It’s still warm from the morning sun pressing against the roof, still carries the soft, lingering smell of yesterday’s fire and the faint smell of food.

I set my bag on the table and carefully unwrap today’s foragings. The Veilroot and Siltroot roll slightly on the wood, earth-streaked and knobby. Vega hops onto the table to inspect them with a critical click. Pip climbs up and attempts to take a bite. I pick it up mid-lunge with the reflexes of someone who lives with an agent of chaos.

“No, Pip,” I say. “You’ll eat when it’s edible. And not before.”

I set Pip down on my shoulder. Thimble hauls its twig up beside the bundle and sits down next to Vega like a sous-chef who’s had enough of everyone's nonsense. Bran stands by the fire pit, already scanning the room like he’s checking for intruders. Or maybe just deciding if I’ll burn anything today.

I walk across the room and kneel by the hearth. The coals are cold now, but the fire catches quickly. A few breaths and the moss and twigs catch with a soft crackle. The low orange flames return and warmth begins to spread in the room again.

While it grows, I slice the Veilroot into even rounds. Each cut is clean and the pale petals curl slightly at the edges, their sweetness rising through the soil-stained skin. The Siltroot is a little tougher. I split it lengthwise, then quarter it into sticks, my knife dragging along gently as I scrape the skins away.

I place them across the hot stones beside the fire, the way L suggested. No pan. Just heat. The smell rises immediately: smoky, savoury, and with that deep, nutty kind of aroma like warm soil and roasted seeds. My stomach actually growls. Vega clicks back at it, which feels weirdly rude.

I smile. “I feel like we could stay here forever, couldn’t we?”

Vega doesn’t answer. But Thimble— who’s climbed down the table, stick in hand— does; it nudges my leg gently, then turns back to the fire.

“Well,” I amend. “Not really forever. But for a while. Maybe long enough to get good at this, long enough to stop feeling like I have to apologize for being here.”

Pip climbs down from my shoulder, rolls onto its back and stares at the ceiling. Bran finally sits down near the fire. Vega watches the roots turn golden on the stone.

“We’ll eat,” I say. “We’ll learn. And then we’ll see what’s next. But no rushing. That’s the rule.”

Click. Quiet. Agreement, I think.

I toss a few mint leaves into the coals near the roots. They sing and curl and release that clean, sharp smell that cuts right through everything. A little freshness with the intensity of the roasted earth.

When it’s done, I plate the meal onto bark-wraps left behind in the storage chest. One for me. One shared among the Caterpies. Vega gets his own piece, because he insists.

The first bite is simple. But warm.

“Not bad,” I say.

Pip tries to stuff an entire root round in its mouth and makes an unintelligible noise that might be approval. Thimble eats in perfect, repeated bites. Bran waits until the others finish before even taking its first bite.

Vega clicks and leans against my side.

About half-an-hour later, after I tidied away the bark-wraps, and the fire crackles behind me, warming my back, I reach for the shelf. Vega’s sitting on the bed, while the others curled up together near the fire.

I pick out a different book. A thicker one, today. Bound in worn leather, its corners frayed and the pages uneven and stuffed with extra sheets and ribboned notes. It looks used. Loved. And not just for research.

There’s no title on the spine. But inside the cover, written in the same handwriting:

Field Journal – Mixed Entries, Thoughts, Notes, Wanderings, Mistakes, and Things I Wasn’t Sure About.

— L

I take a long breath and flip past the first few pages.

Entry – Early Spring

Felt a bit of a weight in the chest when waking. I can’t quite place it. Only that it was heavy and shapeless. So I left the cabin before the sun even rose, followed the southern ridge past the stream, and sat under the oak that smells strangely like cinnamon. I didn’t find any new plants. Didn’t see any new Pokémon, either. Nothing to “show”. I did leave an apple slice at the roots. Gave thanks. Felt better after that.

A pressed petal marks the corner of the page. Purple. Cracked at the edges.

I trace it with my finger and move on.

Entry – Early Summer

Question: When does a wild thing become something else?

Is it when you name it? Feed it? When it chooses to stay beside you, without a ball to bind it? Krin still won’t let me touch him. But he walks beside me. Watches my back. I think that counts as trust, doesn’t it? Or maybe it’s just shared weathering.

I flip further.

Some pages are barely filled. Some are scribbled diagonally, halfway down the paper like thoughts interrupted by sleep. Others are dense, diagrammed entries. Detailed accounts of leaf structures, Pokémon tracks, how certain plants sing slightly when stepped on after rain.

I think not all things are meant to be catalogued.

Some are meant to be lived alongside. Pokémon are more than just data. They’re neighbours. Companions. Reflections. And the plants? The trees? The moss and mint and weird fungal lace I still haven’t named?

I want my life to be made up of more small, repeatable things. Tea at morning and dusk. Watching wings overhead. Flowers in the grass. Sketching roots because I like their shape.

If this cabin is ever found— if this book is ever opened— let the one reading understand:

This is not a record to complete.

Only to continue.

I stop reading. Close the book but leave my finger between the pages as a bookmark. I let the firelight flicker against the leather. Let the words breathe and settle. This isn’t just research. It’s a memory.

I open the book and flip to a blank page in the back.

Empty. Waiting, I think.

And I pick up my pen.

Entry – Day Seven, Early Evening

I found this cabin two days ago, on the fifth day of my journey here. Or maybe I was found by it.

I don’t know where I came from. I remember my world very well; the people, the culture, the shapes and sounds and logic of it. But it still feels like a place I took of like a jacket and left folded on the bus. This place is warmer. Softer. Wilder in a way that doesn’t punish.

Today I walked east of the cabin and started to know things again. I recognised them from the books you left here, the ones I’ve read already, at least. Veilroot. Siltroot. Streammint. I caught fish yesterday with the rod you left behind, too. Not a Pokémon. A regular fish.

I think this is a place where things grow without being told to. Including people.

I’ve named my Caterpies, too:

• Pip (a reckless agent of chaos)
• Thimble (a thoughtful librarian of sorts)
• Bran (a serious, watchful sentry)

Vega’s (my Kricketot) is the one who found me. He stayed when I had nothing to offer.

I don’t know how long I’ll stay here. I don’t need to know, though. For now, I’ll gather knowledge, and plants. Sketch. Walk. Sleep. Cook.

I’ll keep this place alive while I’m here.

I sign only with my initials. Take a deep breath and let the silence of the cabin settle.

The door creaks gently as I open it two hours later. Outside, the clearing is hushed, in a way. Not silent. Listening, more like.

The last warmth of the day lingers in the moss and the stones. The breeze has settled into something soft, brushing my sleeves as if to remind me to breathe deeper.

I sit on the front step. Let the wood cradle my legs. Vega sits down beside me. Not tucked close to me like usual. Like we’re both just small things trying to understand something impossibly large.

Above us, the stars are out in full. Not the pinpricks of light I remember from the city sky I used to know. These stars are close. Like they could fall gently into your hands if you reached up slowly enough.

Pip waddles out of the doorway, yawns in a way that’s mostly antenna, and flops beside my boot. Thimble sits on my other side, leaning against me. Bran stays just in the doorway, facing out. Guarding us and the cabin.

The sky continues above us. Wide. Quiet. Open.

I whisper to Vega. “I’m not scared anymore.”

He doesn’t click. Doesn’t move.

He just leans gently against my arm.

I lean back. Thimble shifts with me.

Chapter Text

It begins with wind.

The wind isn’t harsh. Nor is it cold. Just a steady, soft sort of breeze, like it knows the shape of the trees it passes through. As if it’s always been here, and always will be.

I feel it first on my hands. Then my face. And then my legs, bare as they are. But not cold. Just exposed to something wide and open. I’m also barefoot. The ground beneath me is soft, springy. Moss, maybe. Or meadow.

When I open my eyes, it’s not the cabin I see.

It’s a field. Tall grasses brushing my knees, bending in slow waves. Not yellow with sun. Not dark with night. But the colour of moonlight, as if someone painted the world in silver and breath.

The sky above me is huge. Not empty, though. And not loud. Just full.

Full of stars. Not the ones from earlier, from the last dream. Closer, though. Sharper, in a way. Familiar. I recognise the shape of one cluster— five points, like a crooked wing. I’ve seen it in the sky every night since I arrived here. I think, distantly, I also sketched it on a bus once, back in my old world. But I’m not sure.

I’m also not alone.

Something moves to my left.

I turn.

It’s a Pokémon. But not one I know. Or… not exactly. I think it was the one from my last dream.

It’s tall, long-legged, almost like a deer. Not quite, though. Its fur glows faintly, a quiet kind of luminescence, the kind that doesn’t light the world around it but rather deepens it. Faint blue and silvery-white markings drift across its back like starlight stitched into fur. It looks at me, calmly, gently, as if I’ve been expected. Watches me the way something ancient watches something newly born.

“Am I dreaming again?” I ask. My voice doesn’t echo, but rather falls like water onto stone.

The Pokémon blinks. Walks closer. Slowly so.

It doesn’t speak. Not with words, at least. But I feel something. A pulse. A warmth, of sorts. Not from it. From me. Like something I already knew, just finally saying hello.

It brushes its nose gently against my hand. And for a second— just one— I see flashes: the stream, lit by sunrise; a Cutiefly hovering above flowers; Vega’s antennae curled in sleep; the notebook, open on the last page I read; and L’s hands, sketching by a fire I never saw lit.

Then—

It’s gone. The deer, the field, the wind. All of it, gone.

Except the warmth.

I wake slowly.

The cabin is quiet again. The fire has burned down, Vega’s still sleeping beside me, and the Caterpies are curled into themselves, looking all soft and warm and cozy. The stars outside still watch us through the window.

But there’s still a lingering sensation in my hand. A quiet tingle, where it’s snout brushed against me. Not to warn, not to lead. Just to remind me:

You’re where you’re meant to be.

After spending the morning fishing, I head back toward the cabin with a half-wrapped bundle of small silver fish tucked into a cloth, mint leaves and moss still clinging to my sleeves. It’s an easy walk. Familiar to me now. Vega is humming low beside my ear, Pip is attempting to walk while balancing a pebble on its head (poorly), and Thimble keeps rearranging the bundle like we’re catering an event. Bran is trailing behind.

It's peaceful. Soft. Like all the other mornings.

Right up until it isn’t.

We step into a different clearing near the willow; the one with the overhand and the thin patch of fern I found earlier today when looking for food. There’s a flicker of motion just ahead. I slow. Raise a hand gently. Pip collides with my leg and falls backward with a squeak. Vega stills at once.

The grass stirs. Quick, sharp. Not rustling. Thrashing.

Then I see it.

A flash of brown. Wings. A beak. Eyes— wide, wild, furious.

Farfetch’d.

Larger than I expected. About three Pips high. Holding its infamous leek stalk like a sword. Its feathers are puffed. Its body language defensive. It hisses low through its beak, eyes locked directly on me.

“Hey,” I say quietly, softly, holding the bundle of fish out slightly. “I’m not here to—”

The Farfetch’d lunges.

I scramble back—

Just in time. The stalk slices the air just in front of me. Vega clicks. Moves to block, antennae twitching—

But then Bran moves.

He launches himself forward. Places his small body between me and the bird without a second thought, without any hesitation whatsoever. His antenna twitches once, twice, thrice, his little limbs wide. He’s tiny compared to the Farfetch’d, but not intimidated.

The Farfetch’d pauses.

Bran doesn’t growl. Doesn’t posture. Just stands there, like an immovable object. The Farfetch’d eyes him, looking a little uncertain now.

It lunges again. More out of confusion than rage.

Bran meets it.

He doesn’t strike back. Doesn’t dodge. He drives forward with all his weight, slamming into the Farfetch’d’s chest like a spring uncoiling. For a split second, a breathless instant, the whole forest holds its breath.

The bird stumbles back. Shocked.

It steadies itself. Eyes me again. Bran doesn’t move. Vega has joined him, clicking in warning.

And then—

The Farfetch’d turns.

A beat.

It’s gone. Into the trees, low and fast, no longer attacking, no longer sure of itself.

Silence settles again like dust.

I kneel slowly, placing the fish bundle aside. My heart’s pounding. “Bran…”

Bran turns, then walks towards me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. I freeze. Kneel down. My hand hovers in that space between us for a moment.

He stops in front of me. Lifts his head. Looks me directly in the eyes. He’s still so small. Not a warrior. Not even evolved. Not armoured in steel or fire or anything that should make someone brave. But he stood between me and an aggressive Pokémon without blinking.

Because he chose to.

And now he chooses this.

I reach out— slow, slow— and place my hand on the top of his head. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away, either. Instead, he leans into it. He is warm. Not like sun. Like life. Steady, constant, quietly burning beneath the surface.

I keep my hand there longer than I mean to.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

He blinks once. Doesn’t nod, doesn’t make a sound.

But I feel something shift.

A thread, tied gently between us. A bond. The kind that roots itself in the small, hard-earned moments. The kind that doesn’t need a Poké Ball to be real.

The cabin is quiet when we return. No sound but the soft rasp of fire settling into coals. The door creaks gently shut behind us. Pip is quiet. For once. Even Thimble’s fussing is quieter, gentler; folding the same cloth three different ways on the table without reason.

I haven’t said much.

Neither has Bran. He walked the whole way back just behind me. Not limping. Not tired. Not injured in any way. Just… calm. Like everything in him had gone very still.

I sit down on the floor near the last embers of the fire. Vega sits down on the bed, watching. Bran stops in front of me. Looks up. Still the same scar. Still the same Caterpie. But something is shifting.

He doesn’t look proud. Or triumphant.

He looks… settled.

I reach out, slowly. Rest my hand beside him, palm open. He moves forward without hesitation, leans against my arm. Settles down next to me.

"That was reckless," I say, holding him a little tighter. “And brave. And— gods, you're small.” My voice breaks a little. I let it. No reason to hold anything back now.

Bran lets out the smallest, roughest little sound I ever heard him make. Not a chirp. Not a squeak. More like a breath.

Then—

He glows.

Not bright. Not binding.

Warm.

It starts low in his body, like an ember catching in dry wood. Spreads out. Slow. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just certain. Like the seasons changing. Like the tide coming in. Like Bran himself.

Thimble freezes. Pip lets out a soft, wordless squeak. Vega clicks. Quiet, low.

Bran lifts his head, scar catching the light in a small gleam—

And then the glow wraps around him. No fanfare. No music. Just light, holding him gently. Cradling him like sleep. His body stretches. Solidifies. Curves inward. A cocoon of emerald and memory.

When it fades—

He’s still Bran.

But now, he is Metapod.

He stands upright. Balanced. Perfectly still. The scar runs faintly along one side, like a seam in glass. But it’s still his.

I place both hands on the floor beside him. Lower my head until my forehead touches his shell.

He’s still warm.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” I whisper. “Watching you change.”

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t have to. I understand him anyway.

Day Eight – After the fight

• Bran evolved in the cabin tonight
• after the fight, when everything was calm
• it feels like he chose that moment, like he waited until no one was watching for it
• the scar stayed, looks like a line of light
• I think he’s teaching me what it means to change without losing yourself

We’re sitting still for a long time after, Bran quietly next to me. The cabin holds its quiet like cupped hands. The only sound is the gentle shifting of firelight over stone, the occasional creak of old wood, the soft hush of our breathing; all of us waiting for something, even if we don’t know what.

I tilt my head. Watch him a little more. He stands straighter now. Still but not unsure. There’s something steadier in him, something more certain. Like he knows who he is, even if he’s not done becoming it. He’s no longer the small but watchful Caterpie I found trailing after the others. He’s something between. Something becoming. His new form is simple but not at all small. It commands attention, in a solemn grace kind of way.

His body is smooth now, curved like a closed hand. His shell gleams a deep, earthy kind of green, glowing softly in the evening light. He looks strong. Held together. The angles of him are sharp now, more defined, and yet he looks softer somehow. Like sleep made solid. His eyes remain mostly the same: narrow, steady, half-lidded. Unbothered. Watchful. Bran.

He holds himself differently now, too. He’s perfectly still and yet hums with readiness. Like he could stay in this state for hours, days, months. but he would break from it the moment I needed him. Not to fight. Not to prove anything. Just to be there.

It hits me all at once then. Of course it would happen like this; slow and still, like leaves turning or snow falling. It’s not a performance, not with Bran. Just a change, happening the way it always does when no one’s watching. Just a truth finally showing itself.

Bran doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But I know he’s aware. Present. Watching me watch him.

I lean back a little, hands loose at my sides. I exhale, just a little. “You were watching the whole time, weren’t you? Waiting for the right moment.”

An ember pops in the hearth. Pip shifts in her sleep. Thimble hasn’t moved since she sat beside the table, her twig resting across her tail like a shield laid down. Vega sits by the window, still, antennae slowly swaying, his head tilted slightly towards Bran.

“You didn’t have to change, I say, more to myself than him. “But you chose to.”

I reach out again, just like before. My hand hovers for a second then settles, gently, on the curve of his shell that’s still warm beneath my fingers. Like stone warmed by the sun.

He looks so different but somehow he looks more him than ever.

He’s no longer a little Caterpie with a defensive posture and a scar like a secret. He’s a sentinel now. A watchtower. He doesn’t look like something that grew. He looks like something that arrived. Something finished, in its own way.

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to. Bran isn’t the sort of Pokémon who needs to perform. He exists the way trees exist: quietly, sturdily, full of history that only becomes obvious when you bother to look close and really listen.

I leave my hand on his shell for a long time. Long enough for the embers to cool. Long enough for Pip to snore, for Thimble to lean sleepily against the table leg, for Vega to hop down and nestle beside my foot. The air is cool now. The kind of cool that reminds you that you’re still breathing. That the world is holding you up, even when you stop moving.

I probably should get up, climb into the cot— to sleep on the proper mattress— but I don’t. I stay here beside Bran, one hand resting gently on the curve of his shell, thumb tracing his scar like I’m drawing a memory into the surface.

And then—

Bran shifts.

Not much. It’s small. Almost imperceptible. A gentle lean forward, a downward tilt I only notice because I’m holding him. Like gravity has invited him to rest again, and for once, finally, he accepts.

For the first time since I met him, Bran stops holding himself apart from the world, and lets it hold him instead.

I feel it in the way his body settles; in the way his muscles relax, in the slow exhale I’m not even sure he makes, but I imagine anyway. He’s not asleep. Not exactly. But something in him lets go. He sinks into the moment like it’s safe. Like I’m safe.

I lie down on the floor beside him. The sleeping bag can wait. The cot can wait. Tonight, the ground is soft enough. Vega curls up by my head. Pip and Thimble are still in their spots from earlier, fast asleep. Bran stays right where he is.

And I let my eyes close slowly.

Chapter Text

Day Nine

It starts with an old idea.

The flour is still in the bottom of the storage chest, wrapped in thick waxed paper, nestled between a few dried roots and some fresh berries. I found a tin of what might be powdered salt (or the oldest, saddest sugar in history) in one of the empty rows of the shelves while cleaning.

“Bread,” I say to Vega, holding the packet for him to inspect. “Let’s make some bread.”

Vega blinks. Slowly. Clicks once in what I generously interpret as support.

There’s no yeast, no oven, no bowl big enough to knead in. But I mix the flour with water and a bit of salt, flatten it by hand on a slab of clean stone, and lay it out carefully on the edge of the coals.

It catches fire in about thirty seconds.

The blackened slab I pull out tastes like charcoal. Pip eats half of it and looks at me like I owe her more.

Thimble carefully pats a second flatbread with her twig. I try again.

This one tastes better.

And it’s bread.

We find it just west of the cabin, beyond the soft bend in the path where the moss grows thickest. A wide, knotted stump half-collapsed into the earth; its interior is hollowed out into a kind of natural bowl.

Pip hops in immediately. Thimble follows, ever the structural engineer. Bran stands at the edge, looking over everything like he’s planning a defence strategy.

I lower myself beside them, brush the dirt away, and press my hand to the bark. The wood is cool and ridged, the grooves deep as scars, and the surface is breathing faintly with the dampness of the earth.

Inside, I find the remains of something’s nest. Twigs, shed fur. A feather, yellowed. Slightly curled.

I leave it untouched. Sketch it in my journal. Name it Shared Spaces.

I light a small fire in the hearth. It catches quickly on the dry moss and twigs, crackling low and steady. The light paints the walls in a gentle gold.

Vega presses against my arm. The others curl nearby. Soft. Slow.

Bran looks up through half-closed eyes.

Watching the fire. Watching me.

Day Ten

Bran leads us, for the first time. Not far. Just down a slight slope I hadn’t noticed before. No hesitation. He doesn’t check to see if we’re following.

At the base is a tiny streamlet; barely wider than my boot. The water moves clear and quick over pebbles. Smooth stones are arranged like a rough footpath across it.

Not new, not natural, not mine.

“Did L put these here?”

No one answers. The forest doesn’t explain itself.

I step carefully across.

The path continues on the other side, winding between ferns and low shrubs, a pale ribbon pressed into the moss. Not far. But it wants to be followed.

Not today.

But maybe soon.

I brew streammint tea in the tin mug while the Caterpies laze in the sunbeam by the cabin wall. Vega sits in the windowsill, practically glowing with satisfaction. Bran is beneath the table; still upright, still facing the door. But not tense.

I sip the tea slowly. Let it steep in my bones.

Let the silence thicken. Let it pour over you like honey.

I write that in the margin of L’s book.

Pip keeps dragging handfuls of moss into the cabin and arranging them on my sleeping bag like she’s nesting me.

I let her.

By the end of the night, I’m half-covered in what I assume is clean moss and at least three sticks. Thimble is very proud.

I leave it in place.

It smells like dirt and kindness.

Day Eleven

It starts slow. Just the kind of drizzle that softens the air. The builds.

The cabin holds, but it groans. Bran turns to face the window. His shell catches the candlelight in a gentle glow.

I pull out another of L’s books. This one has no title. Just pages. Half sketches. Half thoughts.

A leaf in the rain doesn’t run.
It stays.
Because it belongs.

Vega stares out the window like the water offended him.

I stack stones on the windowsill. Pip tries to knock them down. Thimble rebuilds them. Bran doesn’t react. He’s just a pillar of calm in the corner, like a green comma in a sentence no one else can write.

I boil root slices and mint. It tastes strange. Sweet, bitter, clean.

I don’t talk.

Neither does anyone else.

But I feel like we had a conversation anyway.

I draw the rain.

I draw it not as lines, but as movement.

The way the world hums when it’s wet.

The page smudges where my hand rested.

I leave the smear. It feels honest.

Day Twelve

The rain lifts and the world blooms.

Every surface is slick with light. Leaves shine. Stones gleam. The trees smell like breath after weeping. The stream near the cabin has risen slightly, and the moss glows underfoot. Puddles scatter the path like tiny mirrors, and every branch bends under the weight of shining droplets.

We walk. We have no destination, just… forward.

A cluster of Cutiefly pass us in a slow drift. Like lanterns. One hovers above Bran and lingers.

He doesn’t move.

But he watches them leave.

And I think, maybe, he understands something I don’t.

We wander farther than usual. Following a slow loop where the trees thin and the sunlight filters in through the canopy in pale pools. There’s a patch of ground here that feels soft even before I step onto it. But not muddy, just cushioned. The grass is low, the moss spongy and thick, like the earth is breathing in its sleep.

We almost miss her.

She’s curled beneath a low fern— half in the sun, half in the shade of the tree— still as a stone. Roselia. Not threatened. Not asleep, either. Just sitting there, calm as you please. Just… resting. One flower-tipped arm is tucked beneath her chin, the other splayed out, releasing the faintest of fragrances. Something floral and wet, like rain just ended.

She sees us. Doesn’t move.

Bran freezes. Vega tilts his head. I slowly lift a hand. Say nothing.

We don’t get closer. We just stay. Watch. For like a full minute— maybe more— locked in this weird, mutual stillness.

Then Pip sneezes. Loudly. And the moment disappears.

Roselia rises slowly, casually, without urgency, brushes one petal-hand against her side, and slips away into the trees.

We don’t follow.

Near the cabin, caught between two stones by the stream, I find a feather. Long, white, and striped with black near the base. Not from any Pokémon or animal I know. Not from any I’ve seen.

It’s still wet.

I hold it carefully between my fingers, as if it might carry a story I’m not meant to read yet. I don’t know who. Or why. But I dry it gently and place it in the journal beside the other feather.

Maybe someday I’ll know where it came from.

Maybe that’s not the point.

That night, I sleep in the cot with the window open above me, the beams humming with a draft that smells like distant trees. Vega lies curled in the crook of my elbow. Thimble and Pip are a a small knot of green rings and soft breathing by the footboard. Bran is at the door— his usual spot— but he’s angled toward us now.

As I’m falling asleep, I whisper into the dark, “You can sleep too, you know.”

I don’t expect a response. But the stillness still feels like an answer.

Day Thirteen

The forest feels damp, even before the rain. The air is thick with film. Every branch drips. Even the light seems slow today; kind of heavy, grey, unwilling to fully rise.

I stay inside. Sit at the desk and copy sketches from L’s older journals into my own. Study bark patterns. Try and fail to capture the way moss feels underfoot. It never looks right in pencil.

Bran sits beside me now. Not at the door.

I don’t draw him.

I don’t want to get it wrong.

I boil water and toss in a few dried herbs that smell faintly like rosemary and crushed leaves. I sip while the cabin creaks around us. The others nap, curled into each other like dropped scarves.

Bran moves closer.

I set down my mug. Hold out a hand.

He shifts beside it. Not quite touching, but also not avoiding.

There’s a kind of warmth in this that I can’t explain.

I finish one of L’s journals. The last page is torn. Like someone needed that entry to exist somewhere else. Or maybe it wasn’t written yet.

I don’t feel disappointed.

More like I’m being invited to write what comes next.

Day Fourteen

When I wake up, Bran isn’t at the door.

He’s beside the fire pit, facing the hearth, motionless as always— but somehow… different. His posture is relaxed. His shell angled slightly in comfort. The scar along his side catches the soft morning light and for a moment, I swear it glows.

I kneel in front of him. Rest my forehead gently against the warm curve of his shell.

“Good morning,” I say.

And I think… he lets me.

We walk to the grove where the Roselia was. She’s not here today. But her scent lingers in the air. Floral, gentle, slightly electric.

I leave a piece of dried berry on the moss where she slept.

A small thank you.

Clouds roll in again. Slower this time. No hurry. Just the steady arrival of something soft.

We get back to the cabin before the first drops fall.

I light the fire with ease now. The sparks catch like they recognize me.

The others are already asleep.

I sit on the floor beside Bran, journal open, but I don’t write.

I just breathe.

And he stays beside me. Unmoving. Unspoken.

But not silent.

Day Fifteen

Bran is not at the door.

Again.

I pause when I notice, halfway through lighting the fire. For a split second, a flicker of fear— where is he? —flares in my chest.

But then I see him. Near the window this time, angled so the soft gold morning light hits the side of his shell. He isn’t asleep. Just watching. Witnessing the world. The scar along his side gleams faintly. He looks like a monument.

I leave him there.

He deserves the light.

One circles overhead. Not a common sight here— too far from the coast. But its cry cuts through the forest air like a missed note. Sharp and unmoored.

Vega tilts his head. Pip runs in frantic circles like this is a threat. It isn’t.

The Wingull never lands. Just passes over, trailing a wind we don’t get to feel. Its wings are white streaked with blue, the colour a stark contrast against the grey sky.

But for a second, I think, Somewhere else, it’s raining.

I find it pressed inside the back of a journal I almost didn’t open: a bit of torn paper, yellowed, with a single line scrawled hurriedly: Not all things root in soil. Some just stay because you see them.

I don’t know what L meant by that.

But I read it five times before I can put it down.

Day Sixteen

The breeze bites this morning. Not cruelly. Just a reminder that the season is shifting, even if slowly. The moss is damp underfoot. The cabin holds the chill until the fire pushes it back.

I wrap a spare cloth around my shoulders. Vega sits under it, nosing into my collar like it’s the world’s smallest scarf.

Bran rests close to the hearth. He hasn’t moved all morning.

I think he’s listening to the fire.

Pip uncovers a mushroom and immediately attempts to sit on it.

It squashes.

Thimble lets out a sound that is one exhale away from a scolding. Pip pretends this was intentional and now seems to call the soggy patch of forest floor her “throne”.

I sketch it.

Title: “Pip, Queen of Mushrooms (Short Reign)”

We eat around the fire, as usual. Bits of roasted root, mint tea, fish, and crumbs of dried fruit. But something is different tonight.

No one speaks. Not even Pip.

Out of peace, I think. To enjoy the stillness, to let the quiet stretch gently, like it belongs here more than words do. The crackle of fire. The breath of the forest. The sound of a world settling in around us, and the gift of not needing to fill the space.

Day Seventeen

I fish again.

The line lands perfectly. The current is slow. It feels like meditation.

I catch one fish. Small. Smooth. I thank it, gently, and carry it to the cabin.

Pip runs around my feet excitedly.

Pip climbs a tree. This is becoming a pattern.

She slips. This, too, is part of the pattern.

But this time, Bran is there. Again. Prepared. He shifts under the falling bundle of green and leaf and catches Pip squarely against his shell.

Pip squeaks. Thimble fusses. Bran doesn’t blink.

And I… sit down beside him. Slowly. Gently. “You never flinch,” I say.

Bran does not respond.

But I swear… I feel him rest, just a little, against my leg.

The power of a single candle in a wooden room on a cold night is enough to make your heart want to sing.

I light one and sit by the window, sketching by its flicker.

Outside, I catch a glimpse of the Cutiefly again. Just one, this time. Hovering at the edge of the clearing.

Still watching.

Day Eighteen

I wake remembering something. A dream. Half-formed. A face I don’t recognise. Or maybe do, but can’t name.

A voice said something soft. Something like, “You’re almost ready to move again.”

I blink up at the cabin ceiling and feel both comforted and unsettled.

Am I?

The trees creak. The branches sway.

And for the first time since arriving. I feel something underneath the peace.

A pull.

Something in the forest wants me to keep walking.

Not now. Not immediately.

But soon.

I spread out the rough sketch-map I’ve been building in pieces over these last days. I mark the grove. The stream. The hollow tree. The direction the Wingull flew. The rocks Bran led me to. The places I haven’t gone yet.

Vega clicks softly beside me. Pip leans on my leg, finally tired. Thimble dozes upright.

And Bran watches the map with me.

I swear, his shell is angled just slightly toward the direction I’ve labelled, Beyond.

Day Nineteen

The air is sharper this morning. Cleaner, not cold. Like the world pressed reset.

I step out with the journal still open in one hand, not because I want to write, but because holding it has become a reflex of sort. A part of me. Like breath.

Bran follows.

But not behind like he used to. Beside.

He doesn’t even pretend to guard anymore.

He just walks with me.

I begin to clean.

Not packing. Not preparing to leave. Just… seeing what I have. What I might take. What might stay.

I find an extra journal L never touched. It’s blank, hand-stitched, the first page marked with only a tiny sketch of a compass rose.

Maybe it’s for the road.

I leave it out, unsure.

At the fire, Pip curls up beside me. Thimble leans against my pack like she’s trying to keep it from going anywhere. Vega is quiet. Bran sits near the map I spread on the floor.

None of them ask where we’re going next.

But they know.

And so do I.

Day Twenty

I visit the stream again. Alone, this time.

The fishing rod is still there, leaned neatly between two stones. The tin of hooks beside it. Undisturbed. I crouch. Brush my hand along the handle. It feels different now. Not mine. Not not mine, either. Just… shared.

I reel in the line once, check the hook, then set it back down exactly as it was. “Someone else will need you,” I say.

I don’t cast it out again. I thank the water.

And I walk away.

I place the second journal into my backpack. Re-wrap the mint. Check the tools. Fold my maps.

I don’t do it all at once. Just a little at a time, between sips of tea and long looks at the sky.

I’m not rushing. But I’m moving.

And that’s enough.

I walk to the fence post. The wood is rough under my palm. I tie a ribbon on it; found by the stones Bran led me to. Faded blue. Still warm from my hands.

Let it be a message, I was here, and I was okay.

(I tie a second one to my pack.)

Day Twenty-One

I light the fire with the last of L’s moss. Just a pinch. It catches like it knows this is the final time.

I let it burn slow.

Vega sits beside me. Pip offers me a rock I gave her a week ago. Thimble tries to fold my shirt sleeve. Bran rests against my knee.

No one speaks.

The fire talks for us.

I walk the full loop of the cabin’s surrounding woods. The grove, the stump, the stream, the moss path, the hollow tree.

Each place looks the same.

And yet each one has changed.

I don’t collect anything. I just walk.

Because this is goodbye.

But not loss.

I sleep early. No journal. No planning. Just the sound of the cabin creaking like it’s breathing with me.

I sleep through the night.

And dream of stars I haven’t seen yet.

Day Twenty-Two

I wake early. Before the sun. The air smells like dew and ash and something beginning.

I fold the sleeping bag. Tuck the books into my pack. The map. A tin of mint. A few sketches. The journal with my words.

I leave the old journal on the table, open to my last entry. L’s pages beside mine. Like the beginning and end of a shared song.

I don’t take the rod. But I leave a note:

It works best if you say thank you first.
— M

The path beyond the stone trail is overgrown.

It doesn’t feel hostile. Just untouched.

Waiting.

I walk slowly. Pip sprints ahead and comes back. Thimble double-checks the pack every few steps. Vega clicks rhythmically, like a heartbeat.

Bran stays beside me.

The ribbon flutters in the air, trailing behind us like the sound of a page turning.

Field Notes – Day Twenty-Two

Location: Forest, not too far from the cabin

Weather: Cool and still; light wind from the east

Light: pale and silver at dawn, bright warm

Notes:

I’m leaving today, but not because I’ve taken all I can and not because I’ve grown out of this place. But because the trail is calling again and I’m not afraid of it anymore. I arrived not knowing how to breathe. Now I know how to listen.

Companions:

• Vega (steady as ever; understands far more than he lets on)
• Pip (perfectly unhinged; once declared moss her queendom)
• Thimble (meticulous, warm; currently reorganising the pack again)
• Bran (evolved, scarred and stronger for it; beside me now)
• they're not my team, they’re my family

Things I leave behind:

• the fishing rod
• my first map
• L’s journals
• a note in the drawer for whoever comes next
• one blue ribbon on the fence post
• the moss Pip arranged on the cot (I didn’t have the heart to clean it up)

Things I carry forward:

• one blank journal
• field notes
• a pouch of dried streammint and berries
• a stone Pip gave me twice
• L’s sentence: Some things stay because you see them.

To-Do Tomorrow:

• follow the path

Final Thoughts:

I feel like this place was never a stop along the way. I stayed. Long enough for the forest to know me, and for me to know it back.

That feels like enough.

— End Entry

Chapter Text

I don’t look back. The forest around me grows still, then softer, until it feels like part of a story someone else is telling. Branches return to their place. Shadows mend themselves across the trail. I don’t hear the stream anymore. The cabin is no longer visible. But nothing feels lost. It’s with me now, a memory made, folded between breaths.

Ahead, the trees grow thinner. Light filters through in broken pieces, softening the world into muted green and brown. My boots press into the soft earth with each step; the ground still damp from the night’s cold. The rucksack on my back is heavier than before I arrived. But only with real, physical things. My notebooks and maps and food for the road.

Bran walks beside me, keeping perfect pace with every step. Pip runs ahead in crooked zigzags, tripping over every root and stone and pretending it’s on purpose. Thimble follows just behind her, clicking in— what I’ve come to learn is— disapproval. Vega sits on my shoulder, antennae brushing my cheek as he clicks. Softly, rhythmically. Like he’s saying, yes. This way.

The forest changes as we walk farther and farther away from the cabin. Fewer ferns. More pines. Tall, straight-backed, their trunks adorned with old lichen liked faded jewellery. The smell changes, too; like resin and bark-sap and a different kind of green. The moss gives way to packed soil. Above us, the canopy opens. Sunlight pours in like someone lifted the sky a little. Bits of blue sky peek between the leaves and it kind of feels like something is watching.

We stop for water around midday. A shallow stream curls across the trail; its banks lined with flat stones and scattered roots. It’s different from mine. Faster. Less patient, in a way. It sounds more like a whisper with teeth rather and less like a lullaby. I crouch at the edge, kneel beside it, and dip my hands in. The water bites. Cold. Clean. Real in the way that stings a little. I drink. It tastes like cold metal and wet stone. For a moment, I think of L. Whether they ever made it this far or if they went somewhere else entirely.

Then we continue.

We find it near dusk, after the sun has begun its slow way downward, when the trees begin to lean closer again and the path forgets how to be straight. A fork. Half-swallowed by undergrowth. And there— crooked and half-sunken in the loam, is a signpost.

The wood is old and greyed, softened by rain and sun and wind. Moss climbs along the base. Faint letters are carved deep into the wood, worn down like sea glass on a shore. But if you squint— if you read with your fingertips instead of your eyes— it’s still there:

Windmere – 6 km
Orvenne – 12 km
Last marker before marsh

Windmere. A town, I assume. Not far.

I stare at the sign for a while; my hand pressed against it. I feel the age of it. Grooved and smooth.

“People,” I say and the word tastes strange on my tongue. Unfamiliar. I’ve been on my own— with my Pokémon companions— for so long, that the thought of strangers feels like something I dreamed once and forgot

I look back to the others.

Vega watches me like he already knows what I’m thinking. Thimble tilts her head. Pip has somehow managed to climb onto Bran’s back again and blinks very slowly, like she’s absorbing sunlight through her forehead. Bran stands perfectly still. Doesn’t react. His scar catches the light.

None of them move.

They’re waiting.

We reach the edge of Windmere just as the sky begins to turn copper and the light catches on every edge and turns the whole horizon warm.

Windmere spreads out ahead, kind of like a patchwork quilt laid. Stone houses with shutters that don’t quite match and gardens tucked close huddle close together. Fences that are lean but hold, their gaps patched with vine and twine. Thin curls of smoke rise from chimneys, smelling of wood and coal and even something baked. Some signs swing softly in the gentle breeze. Hand-painted, all of them, though none of them match. And there, near the entrance, stands a tall, gently spinning weather vane shaped like a Pidgeotto, its wings catching the wind like it remembers how to fly.

Evening seems to settle over the streets. Lamps blink to life, shining pale halos on the cobblestones. Somewhere, a door shuts with a faint thud. A Sentret rushes along a fence rail before disappearing into a hedge, its striped tail flicking once before the leaves hide it.

I adjust the strap on my bag and walk onwards. The cobblestone is uneven here, worn from years of use. A child follows a Drifloon, whose stringy arms bob lazily just above the child’s reach. On one of the fence rails sits a Meowth. It blinks slowly at me once, like it has lived here for seven lives already, then curls its tail tighter. Unbothered.

A small wooden stall stands in front of a house, shelves stacked with bundles of dried and drying herbs. The vendor looks up as I pass. Their eyes linger for a heartbeat, then return to their work.

We find a bench near the edge of a small square. Just wood and stone, tucked next to a public notice board no one seems to have updated in weeks. 14^th September, one of the notices reads. I don’t know when exactly that was— or perhaps will be— but it’s the first hint of whenever I am.

I sit. Bran joins me, sitting by a leg of the bench. Pip climbs onto the backrest and declares it her queendom. Thimble studies the notice board so closely, I think she might be looking for secrets. Vega stays close to me.

The town is still. More so than it looked from the outside. The only thing moving is the slow swing of shop signs in the breeze and the lazy drift of smoke over the rooftops. Somewhere down the street, footsteps fade, followed by the creak of a closing door. The lamps hum faintly.

I take out the journal, open a blank page, and write:

We arrived at Windmere. It’s a quiet little town. Feels like a good place to stop for a bit.

Mornings in Windmere smell like bread and dust and lavender. I slept just outside the village, in a small, hidden clearing of the forest. Now the streets are brighter and the lamps unlit. The cobbled paths are still uneven.

Pip insists on walking on top of some low stone walls. She seems to make a game of it, pointing at things and clicking wildly, like she’s announcing their names even though she has no idea what they are. Thimble walks at my heel like she’s personally responsible for keeping us from being arrested. Vega sits on my shoulder again, scanning the village. Bran walks on my other side, ignoring the looks we draw from the locals.

We pass a small bakery. It’s tucked into the corner of two narrow streets. The door stands open just enough for the warmth to spill out, wafting along them smell of yeast and sugar and something just pulled from the oven. It curls around me like a hug I didn’t ask for but can’t quite ignore. A window box of bluebells leans over the door like it’s trying to peek out.

Further down the town, a woman kneels in her garden, tending to a patch of oddly squared cabbages. She looks up when we pass. Then she frowns. “You always walk around with two Caterpie?”

I stop.

The Caterpie all stop too.

Pip freezes mid-walk. Thimble flattens a bit like she’s wondering if this is illegal. Bran stares at her blankly.

I look at the woman. Her dark hair is lined with white streaks, the kind that grows slowly. Strand by strand. Her brown eyes are kind and sun-lined. Dirt clings to her nails and along the creases of her knuckles.

“It’s three, actually,” I say softly and point to Bran.

She squints. “That’s a Metapod.”

“Still counts.” After a short pause, I add, “Same evolution line.”

She snorts. “Well. At least they’re not on your shoulders.”

“Give them time.”

She looks at me again. Her gaze softens. Then, she nods. “You’re not from here,” she says. It isn’t a question.

“No,” I say.

She hums and goes back to her cabbage. But as I turn to leave, I hear her say— more to herself than me— “They look like they’re home.”

I sit on the bench in the town square again. Watch a Rufflet jump from rooftop to rooftop, stealing bits of cloth from laundry lines. No one stops it. It looks like everyone just knows and lets it be.

Vega taps on the bench. Clicks.

“I know,” I reply. “We won’t stay long.”

He doesn’t click again.

As I pass an old fence at the edge of the market, something catches in the corner of my eyes. A small knot in the wood with a sliver of colour in it. I stop. Lean closer. It’s a piece of twine tucked into the knot. Roughly braided. It’s strands uneven and slightly frayed. A small acorn charm is tied to the centre.

There’s no note. No tag. No sign it was meant for anyone in particular. It was just left there, in a place you’d only see if you were walking slow enough to notice.

I stand there for a bit, listening to the quiet shuffle around me. Then I slip it free from the fence. Feel the faint give of the knot as it lets go. I tie it to the strap of my bag, the acorn swinging lightly against the fabric.

We leave at twilight. The last light of the day pours along the back road and lays gold over the cobblestones. It stretches our shadows long against the path. It smells of cooling stone and woodsmoke. Lamps blink on along the streets. A cart stands empty beside a wall, a door swings shut somewhere out of sight, and a lone Pidgey flies up to the eaves.

The path out of Windmere bends east, then turns quietly into thicker forest. Wild growth presses closer, the ground is rougher, and the air cooler. Here the underbrush doesn’t part for you. It waits until you step around it.

We walk until the last amber light thins into grey. I find a hollow tucked beside a ring of broad trees, their roots curved like the edges of a bowl. The ground is soft. Mostly flat. Dry leaves and moss scattered over it. It feels like a wordless welcome.

“Here,” I say to the others. “We’ll stop here.”

Pip throws herself dramatically onto the moss. Thimble walks around the perimeter of the place like a bodyguard. Vega jumps on a low branch above, backlit by the last gold-pink streaks of sky. Bran settles down like he’s been here before in another life.

I lay out my bedroll and gather kindling. The fire takes quickly, the flames licking low, the kind that burn without consuming everything. Dinner is dried root, some fruit from Windmere, mint tea in the tin cup. I lean back against a tree, steam rising slow into the cool air.

The Caterpies curl up early. Pip at my boot, Thimble beneath the flap of my backpack, Bran exactly where he settled down. Vega jumps down from the branch, to the fire-warmed earth, snuggles close to my side, and lets his antennae twitch one last time before sleep overcomes him.

I don’t write tonight. Don’t sketch.

I sit and watch the fire burn down. Until it doesn’t crackle anymore. Until it hums. A slow, tired hum, like it’s sung its last song for the day and is just letting its final notes carry themselves into the air.

Above me, stars appear one by one. They peek through the gap between two pines, the just above the curl of smoke rising from the campfire. I tilt my head back. Breathe in the cooling air. Watch the constellations take their places, each one familiar by now.

Around me, my companions are fast asleep.

Vega is still by my side, though he has rolled away a bit. His head is bowed forward, antennae twitching now and then in little dreams only he knows. Pip is curled into a loose spiral beside my boot. She clicks softly in her sleep; little squeaks, half-formed sounds, the occasional tail twitch. I think she might be dreaming of some grand battle with a pinecone. Thimble is still using the flap of my bag as a blanket. I can just barely hear her breathing, falling into perfect rhythm with the wind. And Bran— Bran is the only one semi-wake beside me, still where he has first settled down. His shell catches the last light of the fire. He blinks slowly when my eyes meet his.

I don’t bother with my tent or mat or sleeping bag tonight. Instead, I lower myself onto the soft ground. The moss beneath me is warm. It smells of pine and smoke. My breath curls in the cool air, then fades. My eyes stay open a little longer than they need to.

I look at the stars. The trees. My companions.

And when the last embers finally fade to nothing, when the fire exhales its last breath and the clearing folds fully into the night, I close my eyes. Because I can. Because I want to. Because the world feels held, and I am part of the holding.

Chapter Text

The forest is pale gold when I wake up. Light drifts in through the pine like it’s still deciding whether to commit to sunrise or not. The air is fresh. The fireplace cold. I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders and sit up slowly, letting the morning settle in around me before I try to move through it.

Vega is already up. Of course. He sits on a sturdy branch just above the clearing, nestled between leaves against the cold. His antennae twitch now and then. Maybe he’s tracking the breeze, or listening to frequency only he can hear. He doesn’t move when I get up. Just watches me from above.

Bran is still where he was when I fell asleep. He sits at the foot of a pine, leaning against it. For a moment, I think I see his body shift ever so slightly, as if he’s acknowledging me. Or maybe that’s just the wind moving the leaves around him. With Bran, it’s always a little hard to tell.

Thimble is still curled beneath the flap of my backpack; her body twisted a little. Apparently, she has claimed it in the night as her personal property. Her eyes are closed. But I can tell she’s not fully asleep. Her antenna moves slowly, softly, like someone who is monitoring a room before they’ve even opened their eyes. She always wakes up bit by bit, like petals opening one at a time.

And then there’s—

Thud.

A sudden sharp crack of underbrush. Followed by the high-pitched chaos of panicked squealing and something strangely wet being dragged through leaves.

I’m already standing when a blur of green barrels into the clearing. It flails, skids, and then— dramatically— collides with the ground beside the firepit, dragging along something that appears to be a… mushroom? Or something. It’s lopsided and covered in dirt and quite possibly still attached to a chunk of root. The thing slaps onto the moss with a squish and sends up a puff of dirt.

Pip immediately shoots up, throws her little feet out as much as possible and lets out a triumphant— at least, I think it’s meant to sound triumphant— screech. It’s sounds like it’s somewhere between a ta-da and sound the trumpets, I have returned.

She circles the mushroom-rock-thing with a proud series of clicks. Her head is tilted, her chest puffed out a little, like she expects applause. I blink. I’m still not fully awake, the corners of my eyes still blurry with sleep, but I look at the soggy, partially chewed object in question.

“You brought that?” I ask.

Pip lets out another sound— this one sounds incredibly close to a chirp. She begins dragging it closer to the firepit with a very interesting kind of pride swirling about her. Kind of like someone who just discovered farming and now believes they invented food. She pauses. Her tail twitches wildly in my direction, then to the mushroom-thing, then back again.

I crouch to get a better look at the mushroom-rock-thing. It’s damp. Pale. And… oddly round?

I touch it gently.

Rock.

It’s a rock.

With a faint smear of mushroom goo stuck to one side.

Pip tilts her head, lets out a questioning squeak, and looks between me and what I assume is her forage.

“That’s not a mushroom,” I tell her gently. “It’s a rock.”

She freezes. Looks at it. Looks back at me. Lets out a very defensive and curious sounding brprrt of a sound. Clearly unconvinced. She spins in a little circle and click-chirps again. Louder this time. As if being louder would make her right or magically change the rock into food.

Behind me, Thimble has opened both eyes and is now slowly, very slowly, climbing out from under the flap. She takes a long look at the rock. Then me. Then Pip.

She sighs. It’s the deepest, most world-weary sigh a tiny caterpillar can possibly produce. It sounds like someone realising they live with a sibling who never outgrew the age of five.

Pip still seems sure. Undeterred. She pokes the rock a few times with one foot. Bounces on it. Rolls off it. Squeaks something.

Vega clicks from above. A sharp kind of sound I just know is laughter.

I smile. “Okay, forager. Let’s make some real breakfast.”

Ten minutes later, the pan warms slowly over the fire. It’s not quite sizzling, but that whisper-hiss just before. I’m kneeling beside it, turning a few thin slices of dried root with the tip of my knife. The mint goes in last— once the roots are golden-brown— torn and tossed in. Immediately, it smells of that sharp-green-fresh smell of it.

Pip hovers beside me. A little too close to the fire for my comfort. She’s making excited little chirps and clicks and only occasionally looks back at her rock (which she’s placed beside Bran; I think she gave it to him as a gift). Bran still hasn’t moved. I’m not sure he noticed. I’m not sure he cares. But he’s letting it happen, which is more or less the same thing as encouragement in Bran-language.

Thimble helps a little. She noses the food tin open, then wraps her body around the water flask to drag it into place. When Pip’s tail moves a little too close the fire, Thimble bumps it aside. Pip squeaks, offended.

Vega drops down beside me, just as a split up the food. He doesn’t ask for anything, just patiently waits until I’ve spread out three portions (one for the Caterpie to share, a small one for Vega, and one for me). His antennae twitch toward the steam rising from his food like he’s tasting the air.

We eat gathered next to the fire. Pip lets out tiny little content noises as she crunches her root almost dramatically. Thimble eats bit by bit, slowly, as if savouring every bite of her three Michelin star meal. Bran eats slowly. As does Vega.

I smile and dig into my food as well.

The fire dies easily. A slow kind of slump into itself as the last of it curls inward and fades. I wait until the smoke thins and the embers go out, then gently brush the ash away with the hem of my sleeve. It’s barely warm anymore, just enough to be felt if you press your hand close. I take a stick and stir it, watching for any last embers, scatter earth over the top, and smooth it flat with my hand. The smoke fades for good.

Pip watches me from the top of my rucksack, her rock lying in front of it. She looks a little unsure whether or not she’s bringing it. I don’t say anything. She’ll make up her mind when we’re ready to leave.

Thimble is watching me, copying what I do as best as she can. She bumps the water flask as close to the bag as possible, then moves along the sides of my pack next and seems to check each compartment. Pauses when she sees the last of the mint I forgot to tie up. She pulls the twine around it, tucks the stem in tight. Then moves on.

Bran moves at the edge of the clearing. Slowly, like he’s thinking about it first. Makes his way to where the path continues. When he arrives, he doesn’t look back. He waits for us there, until we’re ready to leave, too.

Vega jumps up on my shoulder after I put on the rucksack, Pip still on it. He clicks once, twice, like stones tapping together underwater.

When I stand fully, I take a long look at the clearing. It looks undisturbed. Like we were never here.

I smile at it, nod my thanks, and then we’re off again.

The forest grows deeper the farther we walk. The trees stand closer again. They’re tall and with wide trunks, their roots poking out of the earth every now and then. The ground is a little damp, even with the bright blue sky above the canopy. The light comes through every now and then, but never staying for long. Ferns crowd the path and brush against my knee with every step.  Birds chirp all around us. It smells of leaf mould, bark, and wet earth.

Pip climbs down off me, then runs ahead in zigzags. She occasionally stops to sniff a stump or a mushroom or declares war on a stick. She doesn’t follow the path so much as bounce around it, suddenly looping or backtracking whenever something else caught her attention. Every now and then she squeaks, the dashes ahead again. Her rock, it seems, was left at the clearing.

Thimble walks just behind me. She trails slightly to the side as we walk. Sometimes, she bumps against my legs and brushes her antenna against the straps that dangle low near my hips. And then, other times, she circles once or twice around my boots before continuing to talk next to me.

Bran walks a step or two behind me, but never more. I don’t hear him most of the time, but I do know he’s still with us by the way the ferns next to me bend a little more out of the way.

Vega reminds firmly by my side. I feel him shift on my shoulder every time I duck under a low branch or bough or step over a root or a fallen trunk. He clicks every now and then— and does a deeply amused click-click sound every time Pip creates chaos.

The forest changes the farther we go. The trees here look older; bent limbs, thick trunks, covered by lichen. Some lean toward the path like they’ve been gossiping for years. Moss grows more here, crawls higher up the bark. The air is cooler. Still. The canopy high above thickens and very little sun comes through. The path beneath us has stopped again, turned into leaves and undergrowth and dirt.

Step by step, the ground grows more uncertain. The soft earth gives a little more underfoot. Rots crisscross like veins, and I have to watch where I step very closely. Ferns grow thicker. Vines loop from tree to tree like ropes left behind. I have to duck more often now and push aside branches with my forearm just to keep moving.

And that’s when I start to see them—

Claw marks.

They shallow. High on a tree trunk. If I walk closely, I can see them: three clean lines. They don’t seem like they’re territorial marks. I don’t think. I think… they’re deliberate. In that way people carve their names into a tree. I move to stand on tiptoes and reach for them. They feel somewhat fresh, with sap still glistening where the bark split open, and sticking to the tips of my fingers.

Thimble moves a little closer and climbs up all the way to my head. Like she’s taking a long look at the marks too. Vega shifts on my shoulder. Click-click-click.

I take one last look at it, then we continue on.

But then—

Another mark. This one is lower; knee height. And there— a scuffed patch in the dirt. It kind of looks like someone was starting from a combat stance but pushed off too hard.

Then again— but this time one a wide stone. A shallower cut. It’s long and straight, scratched into it diagonally. A quick strike, maybe.

“I think someone’s practicing here,” I say.

Pip lets out a click-chirp and puffs up as if to say, I practice too! She then trips over a root and lands face-first in a pile of soggy leaves.

We follow the marks. They lead us a little off the trail and into thicker trees. Slowly, step by step, it gets a little quieter. The wind still moves through the leaves, but the birds stop singing. The insects stop buzzing. Like the world has paused to listen.

Then I hear it.

A sharp cry. Short and rough, like a bark dragged through gravel. High and harsh at first, then rising fast and ending just as suddenly.

I crouch behind a bush, push back some of the undergrowth, and look through it into a clearing I didn’t know was there.

And it’s there.

Riolu.

She moves through each moved like it’s practiced it a thousand times. Fists blur through the air. Feet strike into the ground. Riolu circles something I think is supposed to be a training dummy made of sticks and vines and some leaves. There’s a proper dent in the middle of it, like she’s been hammering the same point over and over and over.

She doesn’t seem to notice us. Her eyes are fixed on the dummy,

I stay crouched where I am, don’t speak. Thimble climbs down from my head to my shoulder, Vega inches closer to my ear— his body pressed completely against the side of my face— and Bran, Bran inches closer to me, right by my knee. Looks through a shallow patch.

And Pip—

She’s already halfway to charging in. I grab her before she can dramatically challenge a stranger to a sparring match— especially one she would lose. She squeaks. Protests. But quiets down quickly when Bran gives her a look and sighs.

Riolu’s ears flick.

She turns. But she looks neither startled or aggressive. Thankfully. And when she sees us, her eyes narrow. She takes a step back. Stays. She moves into a kind of more guarded stance, I would say. Her body lowered and her paws look ready. She doesn’t bark, though. Or posture. Or run. Just watches us watching her.

Then she juts out her chin, turns, and disappears into the underbrush.

I pause. Wait.

Only when Bran looks at me do I move again.

But we don’t go far.

Just down the ridge where the clearing ends, where the trees begin to thin. The ground firms up a little beneath my boots. Less spongey, more solid, scattered with dry needles and old bark. A few roots still wind up and down the earth. A little further ahead is a patch of flat ground, bare except for the occasional scattered leaves and some pale shoots poking through. It’s surrounded by leaning trees.

I drop my rucksack. Help Thimble and Vega down.

Thimble immediately begins moving around the patch of flat earth. She circles it once, twice, then leaves the patch. She doesn’t wander far, though. Now and then she stops beside a small stone, tests its edge with her antenna, then pushes it gently toward the centre with the side of her body. She gathers a few of them, piles them all up near the centre, and looks at me. Proud. I pat her head.

“Thank you, Thimble,” I say.

Vega jumps on a low branch. His antennae twitch as he’s listening to something again. Maybe the Riolu, maybe the wind, maybe nothing at all. He clicks once. Like he’s saying, We’re here.

Pip, of course, is already off to one side, collecting leaves with her mouth and dragging them into a loose spiral on the ground. Every few seconds, she looks back to where the Riolu disappeared from, her antenna twitching. Like she’s trying very hard not to bolt back up the ridge and challenge someone to a sparring match.

Bran settles near a tree root.

I go to the nearby trees to collect some firewood lying about, and slowly begin building the fire. Once it’s lit, I reach for the last of the food I packed. Some dried roots, two handfuls of berries, and some mint. We need to go foraging again tomorrow. I prepare it in my pot on the fire, then split it into five portions.

One for me, one for Vega, one for the Caterpie.

The last one, I bring to the edge of the clearing, just close enough to where Riolu trained, and place it on a large piece of bark. Like a gift placed on a doorstep you don’t expect anyone to open.

Then I return to the campfire.

We sit.

We eat in a companionable silence.

Vega clicks every now and then. Pip crunches with her usual dramatic flair. Thimble leans against my leg once she’s done, and Bran sits where he is, eating slowly, his shell glowing faintly in the firelight.

I say nothing.

I write nothing.

I just am.

After the fire burns down and the day cools into night, I wriggle into my sleeping bag, arms crossed over my chest, eyes half-lidded. Pip made herself comfortable across my throat. Thimble curled up in the crook of my right arm, Vega in the one on my left. Bran sits somewhere behind my head, close enough I can hear him move.

The food is still where I left it.

For now.

Field Notes – Day Twenty-Six

Location: Clearing deep in the forest, past the ridge; somewhere near Windmere

Weather: Cold in the morning, warm by noon

Light: soft beneath the canopy

Notes:

I woke up early and yet Vega was already awake. Pip mistook a rock for a mushroom, it was adorable. She was proud, so I let her be proud. A little. We continued our walk, the trees growing thicker as we went. Found claw marks. And then, further in, we saw her. A Riolu. I left food for her, let’s see if she’ll take it.

Companions:

• Vega (watchful, still; listens to things I’ll never hear, but that’s okay)
• Pip (trying so hard to be brave she trips over her own feet; I love her for it)
• Thimble (seems to watch me a lot more closely than I thought; gathered stones for the firepit without being asked)
• Bran (quiet as always; watching over us in his Bran way)

Final Thoughts:

Not every encounter has to mean something.

But I think this one might.

— End Entry

Chapter Text

Morning arrives slowly, bit by bit. It starts with the birds and flying-type Pokémon; quiet, sharp chirps and calls from the trees, like someone testing a melody they haven’t finished yet. Then, there is the light. Pale at first, filtering through the leaves and branches in soft rays.

A branch creaks once overhead. A pair of wings beat somewhere behind the clearing.

I sit up slowly. The fireplace has since cooled again; the wood burned down to ash. Thimble is already awake, pressed by my side. Pip must’ve fallen off me at some point, and is now spawled across the floor. Vega sits high on a branch. Bran still sits behind my head.

I stand slowly, stretch carefully, then make my way to the edge of camp.

The food is gone.

I smile.

We leave camp sometime after breakfast, the sun still making its way to its zenith. We walk slowly, taking out time to look at nature, trees, the occasional bird we see. I don’t bring much, just my notebook and pen and something for gathering.

The forest is familiar in a way, now. I know where the slope evens out, where it steepens. Where the moss grows thick enough to slip if you’re not careful. Where the birch trees start growing and then begin to outnumber the oaks.

Thimble sits on my head; I can feel her shift as she seems to look around. I’m sure her antenna is twitching, searching for something in the air. Vega sits on my shoulder as always, clicking in tune with my steps. Pip leads the front, zigzagging between bushes and trees and sticks. She stops every now and then to point at something and squeak-clicks like she’s made a groundbreaking discovery. Usually, it’s a leaf. Once it was a stick bereft of any bark.

Bran walks beside me.

A little while later, we find a small slope. It’s surrounded by birch trees, their bark peeling like old paper. The ground is damp. There’s a patch of Starcap mushrooms here, and a few smaller ones by a stream that’s a little farther ahead still. The smaller ones look better, though. Their tops are firm. Their colour clean. I check the undersides carefully, brushing dirt away with my fingers.

“Edible,” I say. Vega clicks in agreement.

Thimble shuffles on my head. I think she’s nodding.

Near a log— between the birches and the river— is a knot of early-growing fiddleheads. They’re coiled and green and just unfurling. I sketch them in the journal but leave them for now. Too young.

In a crescent-shaped patch, I find river mint growing wild. I press a leaf between my fingers and inhale. It’s sharp, fresh, with a sweet note at the end. Then I take a few sprigs and place them next to the mushrooms. Enough for tea and flavour, not too much for them to go bad.

I’m standing back up to move, when Pip discovers something round in the underbrush. Squal-clicks in joy. She barrels toward it like a madwoman. It’s a mushroom. Bright orange. She tries to bite it—

Thimble appears out of nowhere and tackles her.

I don’t have time to stop them; all I can do is watch the whole thing happen. Pip rolls dramatically onto her back, chewing something— not the mushroom, it looks untouched— and making wounded sort of noises. Thimble lets out a series of angry click-click-click click click-clicks that sound like a serious scolding. Her antenna flicks. Vega clicks. Amused.

I walk over and check the mushroom.

It’s bright orange, more so than it looked from the distance. Poisonous, I assume. Probably. For everyone’s safety, I assume the laws of nature are the same here as anywhere else: anything that bright probably wants to kill you.

Click-click-click.

Vega seems to agree.

“Nice save,” I say to Thimble.

She juts out her chin, like of course she knew.

By the time we arrive back at the clearing, I gathered quite a bit. Mint, the mushrooms, a couple of roots I regonised from one of L’s books, and a big bundle of edible greens Pip found entirely by accident and then immediately lost interest in.

The moss feels warmer when I kneel in front of the fireplace to rekindle it. The air smells different, too, more like sun rather than cold. My hands move on instinct— clearing the coals and ash, stacking kindling, striking to spar the fire. It only takes one try. The fire flickers up with a quiet sort of confidence.

Vega jumps down and lands beside the fire ring. His little button eyes close for a moment, as if the warmth touches something deeper than skin. Thimble climbs down from my head and immediately inspects our forage. Pip circles her and the food, chirping and fighting away invisible bugs. Sometimes, she tries to steal a mint leaf. Thimble headbutts her away each time, with a sharp click-click.

Bran settles down next to Vega, back turned toward the fire and eyes toward the path we came from.

I take half of what we gathered and prepare it for cooking. I drop a few quartered mushrooms into the pan. They hiss softly as they hit the hot metal. I add the greens. The mint goes in next. Then the root, cut into thin slices, so it softens quickly. I stir with the back of my knife. Immediately, it smells of something earthly and sharp and strangely comforting.

Pip— dramatically, of course— rolls onto her back and wiggles her antenna. A moment later, she flips up again and starts building a tower of leaves next to Bran. It falls over. Almost immediately. She rebuilds it again— and again it falls. Bran takes a long look at the mess, but doesn’t move.

Vega clicks.

The food is simple. I pass it around in portions, laying most of them on small pieces of bark. Pip immediately starts eating, while the other three take their time. I eat my portion from the pan, smile as the warmth settles behind my ribs, and take care to leave enough for Riolu.

“I think she’s still around,” I say. Looking towards the bushes where she disappeared into.

Thimble follows my gaze, antenna twitching. Pip click-huffs. Vega stills, like he’s listening to something past the clearing.

Bran blinks slowly.

Field Notes – Day Twenty-Seven, Afternoon

Notes:

• cooked some edible greens today, with mushrooms, mint and roots
• Pip nearly poisoned herself (again), Thimble stopped her (again)
• lots of bird activity today

Companions:

• Thimble: kept Pip from poisoning herself, helped inspect our food
• Pip: tried to build a tower of leaves; rebuilt it every time it collapsed
• Vega: still watching everything, listening to the world
• Bran: present in a way I can’t name; I think he’ll be the first to evolve into a Butterfree

Observations:

• river mint grows near steams, smells sharp and fresh with sweet notes (like L said)
• starcap mushrooms are edible when firm and clean
• bright orange mushrooms = likely poisonous (don’t let Pip close)
• found early fiddleheads, might come back to harvest

Later, as the sun descends from its zenith and its warmth invites you to do nothing but exist, the kind of warmth that coaxes the wind into moving again, we’re still sitting in the clearing. I’m leaned against a tree, the journal open on my lap. Vega leans against my side, quietly clicking every now and then. Thimble sits on my head, curled up and breathing evenly. Bran still sits by the fire, though it’s burned down to some embers by now.

And Pip?

…Pip is… full of energy.

She’s sprinting up and down the clearing, launches herself off a root every now and then, like she’s trying to fly. I throw a small pinecone and she runs after it with a victorious sort of click-screech, and skids into a patch of moss like she’s saving a goal in the Champion’s League final.

She returns, rolling the pinecone in front of her. She nudges it in front of me. Looks at me. Squeak-clicks.

I throw it again. A little farther, this time.

She’s running after it before it hits the ground.

“You’re going to crash into a tree,” I shout after her.

Vega clicks in agreement.

We drift into a companionable sort of silence, broken only a little by the wind pirouetting through the branches and Pip’s rustling somewhere in the bushes. A bird calls once, then falls silent again.

That’s when I hear a sound— A rustling—

Riolu.

She doesn’t return to the spot she used yesterday, instead she walks a little further up, until she finds an open space between some trees. The ground there looks to be packed flat, and some of the bark looks a little scarred from older training sessions. I wonder, briefly, how long she’s been at it. Then my focus is back on her. Riolu stands still for a few seconds, then drops into a stance. A quick jab. A sharp kick. A turn. Dust kicks up beneath her feet as she works through each of her sets. She dives her fists and feet into the same spots again and again and again, like a smith crafting a sword.

I move a little, my hands reaching automatically for the notebook in my lap. I straighten up, carefully set Thimble down when she shifts on my head, then fold my legs. I open to a blank page.

Then, I begin with the trees. I sketch their forms first, their gentle arcs, then the space between them. The clearing, its edge, where ferns and grass shoots up suddenly. I try to draw the way the light cuts across it, though I don’t think I quite managed. Then, I draw the darker soil where Riolu stands. The way she holds herself; not quite rigid, not quite guarded, but still always alert. A little like Bran.

I add her outline next. Shoulders squared, arms raised, fists tight. She’s small. But the way she plants her feet, the way she holds herself makes her look taller. I draw the way her ears are tilted back. I draw the way her eyes are narrowed in focus. Then the hardest part— trying to sketch the way she moves. I add little lines showing the snap of her jab, the twist of her kick, the way dust and earth flies from the ground where her feet land. Then I darken the spots for the dents in the soil she makes.

In the corner of my eye, I notice more movement. Pip. Pip seems to have seen enough to believe she’s qualified. She stands a few steps away from the firepit, mimicking Riolu’s every move with the grace of a leaf caught in a breeze. She swings once. Trips. Spins. Falls directly onto her face. But she bounces back up at once. Squeaks something I take to be defiant, and tries again. This time, she ends up adding a high-pitched click-squeak, something like a human hup-sound, one I’m pretty sure wasn’t part of Riolu’s routine.

Thimble watches her for a bit, then turns to me. The look on her face is the Caterpie equivalent of why are you encouraging this.

Vega clicks a few times. It sounds weirdly like laughter hidden behind a polite cough.

I don’t draw Pip into the sketch properly, but I add a small scribble into the corner. A blur of lines, flailing. Above it, I add a little arrow and the word attempt? Next to it.

Up ahead, Riolu moves through another set. Slower this time. She jabs once, then pulls back and resets her footing. A short kick. Her heel thuds into the ground. She turns, drops low, then rises again into another stance. When she stops, she stands there for a bit, breathing.

I flip the page. Sketch her again, the way she is when not in motion.

Later, when the sun sinks until the forest glows in the last streaks of orange before fading to grey and the warmth of the day cools into a soft chill, I move from my spot to start a second fire. Vega helps, click-click-clicking until the fire takes. Bran comes closer, settling down next to Vega. Pip is too tired now, flopping face-down next to the ring. Her greatest enemy— a stick she tripped over five times— lies defeated just off the clearing. Thimble curls next to her. Face turned towards the sky.

I prepare our final meal for the day.

I heat the leftovers of lunch, add the rest of our ingredients and throw it all in the pan over the fire. When it’s done, I part it into five portions. I’m not very hungry, so I add some of mine to the fifth and put it on the bark. Walk it to the tree line.

Leave it where I left the last one.

Field Notes – Day Twenty-Seven

Location: Clearing deep in the forest, past the ridge; somewhere near Windmere

Weather: Warm day, steady breeze; air cooled quickly with sunset

Light: Bright during the day; twilight orange turning to grey at sunset

Exploration:

• walked around our camp base, near a smaller stream, birches outnumber oaks
• ground damp in places; careful with slick moss
• lots of trees have claw marks— maybe old training grounds of Riolu?
• heavy bird activity in the morning, evening was quieter

Foraging:

• gathered Starcap mushrooms (small, firm, undersides clean), safe when cooked/fried
• found river mint patch, brought a few sprigs, will return for more tomorrow
• knot of fiddleheads spotted
• roots identified from L’s books, taste good when fried

Companions:

• Thimble: prevented Pip from eating poisonous orange mushroom, inspected all gathered plants, later headbutted Pip repeatedly for attempting mint theft
• Pip: nearly poisoned herself (again), built a collapsing leaf tower beside Bran. Fetched pinecones with the intensity of a predator, tripped five times on the same stick, eventually collapsed beside fire in dramatic defeat.
• Vega: observant as always, clicked in rhythm with walking, helped spark evening fire, clicked in a way that sounded like restrained laughter while Pip “trained”
• Bran: walked at my side for most of the day, kept watch during meals, quiet, still, always facing the path behind us

Observations:

• Poisonous mushrooms: bright orange, should confirm toxicity but not worth risk
• Riolu continues to return near camp, training routines consistent: jabs, kicks, pivots, stances, movements drilled carefully and repeatedly, training ground shows repeat use (soil dents, bark scars).
• noticed resemblance between Bran and Riolu

Personal Notes:

Today felt good. We walked, gathered a little food, and came back with enough for two meals. Pip was chaotic as always, but thankfully she has four companions to watch out for her. Later, I sketched Riolu. Tried to catch the way she moves, though lines on a page can’t really do her any justice. Still, I think drawing her mattered, if only to say: I see you. Pip joined in, of course. She always does. The sketch looks ridiculous, but I kept it.

I left food again at the treeline. Don’t know if Riolu will take it again, but I hope she does.

To Do Tomorrow:

• explore the area more
• return to mushrooms and river mint for some more food
• check on fiddlehead to watch growth
• watch out for Riolu

Vega is asleep now, curled up at my side. I can feel his warmth, the way his body moves as he breathes. It’s calming. Thimble and Pip are curled up together near the fireplace, both fast asleep. Bran sits somewhere between us, blinking slowly. I wonder if Riolu is out there now, still training, or if she finally rests.

— End Entry