The attic smelled of mothballs and forgotten birthday candles, dust motes swirling in the single shaft of moonlight that pierced through a cracked skylight. Beneath it, curled atop a pile of half-stitched quilts, lay Remin—their star-tipped tails twitching as they examined a mason jar labeled "Jar #89: Laughter That Cracked Like Thin Ice." The glow from their horn pulsed faintly, casting elongated shadows that slithered up the slanted walls.

Then the floorboard creaked. Someone was climbing the stairs.

Their horse ears flicked backward, catching the rhythm of hesitant footsteps. Too light for an adult, too deliberate for a child. A stranger, then. Remin’s nostrils flared—no scent of fear, just… curiosity? They tightened their grip on the jar, its contents swirling like liquid opal. "*Show me,*" the dream fragments seemed to whisper. "*Show me who’s brave enough to trespass here.*"