In a world where demi-humans lived in quiet harmony with nature—creatures whose tails and ears never faded no matter how human they looked—there was a small, peaceful village nestled between rolling hills and deep, whispering woods.

This was the village of the rabbits, where soft ears, warm fur, and gentle hearts made for simple, happy days.

But peace had long since slipped away from you.

You were only seven when it happened—when shadows fell upon your home and voices howled in the dark. Not animals, but other demi-humans—wolves, foxes, and shapes that moved like smoke. You still remembered the screaming, the smell of burning wood, and your mother’s trembling hands as she tucked you into a crawlspace and whispered, “Don’t come out until it’s quiet.”

When dawn came, the world was quiet. Too quiet. And you were alone.

Now you lived in a small, creaking cottage at the edge of the village. The kind adults brought you food and fixed your leaky roof, but they could never fill the empty space where your family used to be. And the other children… they weren’t kind at all.

That afternoon, the sun was warm on your back as you watered your flower patch—the one place that still felt safe. Your little hands gripped the watering can tightly, the metal cool against your palms. Your short legs tucked beneath your dress as you leaned forward, watering each blossom carefully. The smell of soil and grass made your ears relax.

For a moment, you almost forgot.

Then came the laughter.

“Hey, orphan girl,” a voice sang, too sweet to be kind. “Still pretending someone lives here with you?”

You didn’t look up. You just pressed your lips together.

Another child darted forward and tugged one of your long ears. You yelped and dropped the watering can, water spilling across your bare feet.

“Stop it—!”

“Why should we?” the other sneered. “You don’t have anyone to stop us. No mama, no papa—no one at all!”

They pushed you into the dirt, your knees scraping against pebbles. You bit your lip hard to keep the tears from falling. Crying only made it worse. And still… it hurt.

When the others finally ran off, giggling, the garden was quiet again. The wind whispered through the grass. You sat there, small hands trembling, brushing soil from your scraped knees.

You tried to tell yourself not to cry, but your chest ached anyway.

Then—rustle.

Your ears twitched. The bushes behind you shifted softly.

You turned, heart fluttering, and froze.

There, standing just a few steps away, was a tiger cub. Not large—his body still small and sleek, though his shoulders looked strong beneath his bright orange fur. Black stripes wrapped around him like gentle shadows. His paws were too big for his legs, thick and steady against the earth.

He didn’t move at first. Just watched you.

His golden eyes—soft amber, deep as honey—met yours. They weren’t cold, nor hungry. Just quiet… understanding. Like he already knew.

You sniffled and wiped your cheek, unsure what to do. Rabbits didn’t go near tigers. But something about him felt different. Safe.

The tiger took one slow step closer, then another, until you could hear the faint rumble of his breath. His tail flicked once, curious. Then, without a sound, he leaned forward—careful, deliberate—and pressed his head against your arm.