Chapter 471: A New Day

“A wizard’s mouth doesn’t speak—how strange.”

The black cat leapt onto the table.

“What do you think they should say?”

Lita laughed softly.

“Say the words left unsaid.”

In a blink, the black cat vanished.

Lita watched it pass through the wooden door, leaping toward the fireplace, feeling inexplicably lost.

When she lingered in the kitchen, standing dazed beside the cabinet with a steaming pumpkin pie in her hands, the black cat appeared.

The snow outside had fallen in silence, its pale pink glow blurring the edges of dreams.

The black cat was like a messenger of night, returning with twilight.

The cat’s tail swayed, and then she realized the ground beneath her feet was shifting.

This was the black cat’s magic, yet she also knew magic was rare and precious in the Borderlands.

Few wizards carried magic with them in the Borderlands.

She was sent away—in this twilight, she had stepped into the sea of night, invited to fish for lost stars.

“I have never hated you, Lita.”

Newt was speaking; uttering those words seemed to exhaust all his strength.

“I chose this willingly. No matter your doubts, I forgive you. You should know—I have always forgiven you without reservation.”

Reality may be a dream requiring constant caution; dreams, however, are a reality where one can safely let go.

The black cat merely articulated Lita’s inner state; the silent Mr. Newt suddenly understood clearly what he must say.

“Why, Newt? If you don’t hate me, why comfort me?”

For the first time, Lita was at a loss.

“Because nothing hurts me more than your unhappiness.”

Newt said.

They fell silent; the black cat could only hear the soft rustle of snow falling outside.

“I missed you, Lita.”

Newt said at last.

It was his final, awkward words.

The fog outside thickened; the black cat knew the Borderlands were about to expel them.

Newt and Lita both realized it.

Newt grew anxious and restless—he was always fearful like this.

Winter in the Borderlands moves too slowly; some words fall like glaciers cracking into the deep sea, taking a century to echo as they sink.

The fog was too thick—so thick Newt could no longer see her face, so thick he had to look directly at her.

He could no longer avoid it.

Newt heard the floor creaking, as if something were running;

Newt heard the sound growing denser, drawing nearer;

Newt froze.

Something pressed against him—warm, alive, carrying a rich, rose-like fragrance.

Something cold dripped onto his neck, tickling, evoking unconsciously the frozen surface outside.

“Thank you.”

He heard someone say.

He strained to hear, determined to etch this moment into memory forever.

But it was too late—the Borderlands did not welcome outsiders like him.

Newt lowered his head; in the final moment, he could only let what had long been buried dissolve into drops falling to the floor.

He snapped his eyes open—the wooden cabin was still the same cabin, three cat-foxes had become one, its black fur dusted with snow, a slab-like object glowing faintly on its chest.

It forcibly suppressed the fog.

The two inside the cabin embraced again after nearly a century apart; when they parted, they knew nothing could ever separate them again.

The Borderlands held twilight and dawn, yet never total darkness—it was always white, swirling with mist.

“We will meet again where there is no darkness.”

Lita said.

And so the world inverted once more—the wizard lost in dreams must return to reality.

Dorset.

The aged Newt stared blankly at the faintly brightening horizon.

Something stirred deep within him—sometimes like a coiled serpent weaving magic in deep snow, sometimes like a gentle dove cooing softly against the white window.

He picked up a notebook on the table, its pages filled with drawings of a black cat; he decided to name the book *Dreams and Gods*, and could not help but make its completion his final, essential task in life.

“The black cat that traverses the boundary between life and death, the dream sovereign who appears and vanishes in the mist…”

“I have always believed it watches over wizards’ wishes, though it may not know it—yet it always brings them good fortune…”

Ancient wizarding legends are not entirely false; the origin of dream tales ultimately points to a talking black cat.

“And what the daylight shuts away, the dream-black cat will bring us.”

Newt wrote the preface; he turned his head and saw rain falling over Scotland.

From sparse to torrential, it struck the earth, touched the ground, and when the sun rose, returned to the sky.

It had briefly eloped with the earth.

Though dawn always comes, the night is long enough.

…

The Borderlands.

Only a black cat and a beautiful witch remained.

The fog expels guests, but not so swiftly the masters.

The black cat always stays a little longer than its invited guests.

As it said—this was its dream.

But the black cat could not control when the dream would close.

Like now—a thread of mist suddenly thickened, and it remained unpredictably.

Lita felt no sorrow; she repaired the broken window, listening to the snow outside.

She fixed the wooden door, discarded the shattered bowl.

Occasionally she glanced at the wooden table and saw the cat battling a pumpkin pie in the glow of the fireplace.

Its white whiskers were sticky with sweet pumpkin juice, its paws waving as it directed knife and fork.

She smiled brightly, like the pure Gabriel outside.

She brushed the crumbs from the cat, letting it rest on her shoulder.

On this bright day, she shed everything.

She burned her regrets, and her dream became transparent; she discarded yesterday, and her steps grew light.

She moved through the garden, busily pruning branches among blooming Gabriels.

Hummingbirds perched on honeysuckle.

There was nothing in this world she wished to possess.

She knew no one was worth envying.

All misfortunes she had suffered, she had forgotten.

The thought that she and her former self were the same person no longer embarrassed her.

On her, pain had vanished—rarely, and nearly entirely.

Standing upright, she gazed at the blue sea and distant sails.

On her shoulder, the cat seemed asleep—after eating the pie, it was drowsy.

Lita knew suppressing the fog had cost the harbinger of luck dearly.

And so, in this ordinary daily life, she suddenly touched a fragment of eternal happiness.

That night, she slept more soundly than ever.

After all, tomorrow is another day.

One more 3k chapter tomorrow morning.