The final theory was the one Killua felt least likely to be true, and the one that he wished for most ardently; somehow, some way, he'd been sent back in time. Every fibre of him knew that it was impossible. Every fibre of him sang with wanting. It'd be too neat, too easy- and if Killua had learned anything, it was that the universe was diametrically opposed to making things

She hates him, because he is arrogant. Because he is soft. Because she is born of ThunderClan blood to continue a long line of warriors, and he is a change that will set the whispering leaves to fire and make the forest shift its roots. A series of vignettes in which Sandstorm learns what it means to love a comet.

"So you're like me," Firepaw says, placing his words carefully. "Alone, in a way." He dips his head and looks at the ground "Do you miss the past, at all?" His voice is quiet. "Before you were a medicine cat? Do you miss the world before?" Spottedleaf takes a shaky breath. She knows what Firepaw is asking. "Yes, Firepaw, sometimes I do."

The tabby melts out of the shadows and into the quiet light of the moon. He seems half a shadow himself, his stripes hidden against the broken lines of fallen leaves. It is right that they meet like this, when she can remember him as a dream.

Sandstorm runs for the dog pack. She wants, and she hurts, and she must keep running.

Mothwing dreams, of course. Every cat does. But Mothwing is a healer, not a prophet.