Somewhere in the house, the sea whispered against the eastern shore. But in the small upstairs room, time held its breath.
The cousin held the book tightly in his hands, his pulse still racing from what he had seen earlier—that strange glimmer in his cousin's eyes, the heat in the air, the sudden stillness, as if the world had briefly knelt.
He flipped back to the final page. The words stared up at him again:
> "To whoever finds this book: I entrust its truth to you.
But please—do not let my first grandchild see these pages.
Not yet."
"Why?" he whispered. "Why not him?"
The book had more to say.
Behind the final page, tucked into the spine, was a folded sheet—old, brittle, and sealed with red thread. He undid the knot carefully, hands trembling.
It was a letter. But not addressed to anyone in particular.
> "I have seen the signs again. In the moonlight that bends strangely across the sea. In the dreams that have returned after a few years of silence. In the child's eyes when he was born—golden flecks, like fire trying to remember."
> "My grandson… he is not entirely new. There is something ancient within him. A soul that knows the fox."
> "In another age, long before the seals, before the Moon Eater's first hunger, there were two who walked beside the fox spirit. One betrayed. The other stood firm, even unto death."
> "The faithful one—his soul scattered into the tide of reincarnation. I believe… I know… my grandson is that soul, returned."
> "I do not know if he will awaken. I pray he never remembers the pain. But if the seal stirs, if the eclipse returns, he must be protected—not just from the world, but from himself."
> "This book is for the watcher, the reader, the one who comes before. Keep the truth safe. Not yet. Not yet."
The cousin sat in silence. Somewhere downstairs, the floorboards creaked. The wind sighed through the open window.
He looked again at the final line in the letter.
> "He is the soul the fox never forgot."
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