He sits, thumbing through the pages of life. Occasionally, his attention is drawn to a particular passage, reading slowly enough that the depicted in those words would last forever. Soon, though, the boy grows weary of reading the same words, of imagining the same scene, and so he moves on. Once again he skims through the moments not worth remembering - thick descriptions of the way the stars glistened in the sky, effervescent in their light, the memory of the cool summer breeze, the way it came off the sea quietly, the collection of millions of thoughts that were not meant to be considered more than briefly, if they were meant to be considered at all. The boy didn’t care about those things; he didn’t care for anything that directly change how the story would end. So he would continue, back and forth between the moments worth remembering and the moments not, until he reaches the last page. Only then does he pause, remembering fondly of what is and what never was. He would read and re read the last page; you see, even though the boy loved the journey, he always hated the ending. By this time, he had grown fond of the world created in the books pages. He has come to love the way the hero smiled, or didn’t smile. For a time, they had grown real to him. Facing the final page, he is once again aware that they weren’t, that the friends he had observed were never there beside him, no matter how real they had once felt. He mourns this, the final page the loss of a universe. So he reads and re reads, lingering over the final words. And then, another book whispers to him, and he says his final goodbye, and then he closes the book and moves on to find a new world. Such is life, one temporary respite transferred to another, a never ending cycle of beginnings and endings. Every book had to end so another could start. This simply was the way of life.

It had been so long since their mother had told them that story; how curious was it that it was the only thing on their mind in this moment. Surely, there were more pressing concerns. Yet, all they could do was think about the boy and his stories. Perhaps this was their mind trying to ease the reality of the situation; the resurgence of the memory reminded them that for every new story to start, one first must come to an end. Was this their end? They couldn’t help but weakly smile at the thought that the boy had picked up the book of her life from his shelf. What were the moments he paused at? Certainly the night their life changed, the night when they became night, the night they were robbed of their identity, of their home, to end up here. Were there others? They thought hard about their life, and realized with a soft sadness that they had no other pages worth remembering. Had they really lived such a silly, inconsequential life? The smile dropped from their face, replaced again with a look of indifference. Perhaps that had been why their life had been so inconsequential; they had fallen into the trap of indifference. It had been the only way Lilly knew how to survive; they could not care about anything. If they did, the hurt would come back, and they realized that they could not regret doing everything they could not to make the hurt come back. It was too strong; if they had not become indifferent to it all, they would have drown in the seas of sorrow, of loss, of never really learning who you are.

A sharp burn of pain brought Littlefin from their philosophical yearnings. Oh, right. They let out a hiss of agony, glancing down to see their flesh tainted red. Had they had the strength, perhaps they would have gagged on the site of their position; they laid at a strange angle, their body twisted in ways a body was never meant to bend. It had all happened so fast - the roar had ripped through the pine tree forest before they had the chance to realize what had happened. The collision between metal and flesh was drown out by the roar of the engine; had it not been, it would have been a sickening crack. They looked away, unable to see themselves in this position. Conciousness swirled in and out of the feline, and once again, they were drawn to the thoughts of the boy, and how he must be ready for their story to end.