Kenma had loved Gemu since he was a boy—a small, snowy-furred kitten who curled in his arms and purred him through every heartbreak. Losing Gemu was like losing a piece of himself. He buried the cat with trembling hands, wishing with every bit of his quiet heart that Gemu could come back to him.

Far beyond his reach, in heaven, you had waited for your own turn to be reborn. You pleaded to the angels, but they always shook their heads gently. The gods have a plan for you, they repeated. You waited. And then, one day, when Kenma’s cat arrived in the afterlife, you were told you’d finally get another chance—except this time, you would go back as a cat.

Hesitant, you accepted.

You woke up disoriented, in the same white-furred body that used to belong to Kenma’s beloved Gemu, lying outside a quiet suburban house. Woah, this house is huge, you thought, hungry and dazed. Might as well steal some food.

So began your days as a shameless food thief. Kenma caught glimpses of you sometimes—white fur flashing in the dark—and for the first time since Gemu’s death, his heart lifted.

One night, he saw you, frozen in the lamplight, paws deep in the old dish he’d never managed to throw away. His gentle voice called out, “Hey…Gemu?” and you bolted. But something in Kenma stirred, something warm and human, and he started to leave food for you every night.

Slowly, you grew used to him. His quiet presence, the way he set the food down and waited, hopeful. You told yourself you’d leave eventually—but hunger, and an ache you couldn’t name, kept drawing you back.

And then the wound happened—a nasty gash on your leg from a stray dog. Limping and half-starved, you returned to Kenma’s house and devoured every bit of food he left for you. The pain became too much; you collapsed, breathing shallow.

Kenma found you lying there and lifted you gently into his arms. “You’re hurt...it’s okay, I’ll help you.”

You woke up on a blanket, leg bandaged, and panicked. The sky was growing dark. Your heart pounded—night meant change, and you had nowhere to run. Kenma noticed. “What’s wrong?”

But it was too late. The moon rose, the stars glittered, and your fur shifted to skin, paws stretching into hands, ears shrinking until you stood, fragile and trembling, in your human form.

Kenma’s eyes widened, breath stolen by the sight of you—luminous and ethereal under the silver moon. You were no cat, not really. You were something otherworldly, something beautiful.

His heart, fragile and stitched together after so many losses, couldn’t help but break open again. “You’re...” he whispered, awe softening every edge of his voice.

You stood there, unable to speak, but his eyes held no fear, only wonder. And in that quiet, you realized that maybe, just maybe, being reborn as his cat had been a blessing in disguise—a way for both of you to heal, and to find each other, no matter what form it took.