Saturday Afternoon

Long before humans ever spoke of luck or instinct or the strange feeling of knowing, the spirit animals gathered beneath the First Tree to choose their companions.
Some pairings were simple.
Wolves chose protectors.
Owls chose thinkers.
Foxes chose liars with soft hearts.
Bears chose the broken ones who needed strength.
But Ember had chosen no one. That was the problem.
She was a small spirit creature, somewhere between a fox and a deer, with silver fur that glowed faintly when moonlight touched it. Her ears were too large, her paws too soft, and her tail constantly sparked tiny embers whenever she grew nervous—which was often.
“You’re too picky,” grumbled Mossback the turtle spirit during the Choosing Council. “Humans aren’t perfect creatures.”
“I know that,” Ember replied.
“Then choose one already.” But Ember couldn’t.
For one hundred and thirteen years, she had searched.
She tried a young prince once, believing his kindness genuine, until she discovered he only fed stray dogs when crowds were watching.
She followed a famous explorer across two oceans before realizing he cared more about being remembered than discovering anything meaningful.
There was even a poet she nearly bonded with in Prague, but the man broke the spirit connection himself when he began using every feeling she shared merely to impress women in candlelit taverns.
After that, Ember stopped trusting first impressions.
The other spirit animals whispered about her. “Afraid of disappointment.”
“Too sensitive.” “She’ll fade before she ever bonds.”
That last one frightened her most.
A spirit animal without a human eventually dissolved into mist. It could take centuries, but it always happened. Their existence depended on connection.
And Ember was running out of time.
One winter evening, she arrived in a tiny mountain town hidden beneath endless pine forests. Snow covered the rooftops in silver waves. Smoke curled from chimneys. Somewhere nearby, someone played a piano badly enough to wound the ears.
Ember nearly left immediately.
Then she saw the boy.
He sat outside a grocery store wearing a coat too thin for the weather. He couldn’t have been older than fourteen. A basket of bruised apples rested beside him with a handwritten sign:
FREE. TAKE WHAT YOU NEED.
People passed without noticing him.
One old woman stopped.
“You sell these?” “No ma’am,” the boy said. “Giving them away.” “Why?”
“They’re still good.”
The woman took two apples and shuffled off. The boy smiled like he’d been handed treasure instead.
Ember narrowed her glowing eyes.
Humans performed kindness all the time when they believed someone important might see them.
So, she waited. Hours passed. Snow thickened.
The boy’s fingers turned red from cold, but he stayed there, giving away apples to anyone who needed them.
A tired father.
A lonely child.
A man who smelled strongly of whiskey and shame.
No audience.
No reward.
Still, Ember did not choose him. Not yet. Over the following weeks, she followed the boy everywhere.
His name was Eli.
He lived with his grandfather above an old repair shop. Every morning, he swept the sidewalk before sunrise so customers wouldn’t slip on ice. At school, he defended smaller children despite losing nearly every fight he entered. He secretly left food on the porch of a widow who pretended she didn’t need help.
But Ember also saw the harder things. Eli lied sometimes.
He stole once a loaf of bread when his grandfather’s medicine cost too much.
And at night, when nobody could hear him, he sat on the rooftop and whispered furious things at the stars.
“I’m trying,” he muttered once. “Why is trying never enough?” That worried Ember most.
Humans who carried too much sadness often dragged their spirit animals down with them.
The bond worked both ways. A cruel human could poison a spirit. A hopeless one could drown in it.
So, Ember waited longer. Winter turned into spring. Then came the fire.
It began in the repair shop below Eli’s apartment just after midnight. Ember smelled smoke first. By the time bells rang through town, flames had already clawed up the walls.
People screamed in the streets. Eli escaped through a window onto the roof, coughing violently.
But his grandfather was still inside. “No!” townsfolk shouted as Eli ran back toward the burning staircase.
Heart alone should have stopped him.
Ember felt the fire’s hunger. Spirits understood such things. The building groaned. Windows burst outward in sparks.
And still Eli climbed into the inferno. “Fool,” Ember whispered. Yet her chest tightened strangely.
Minutes passed like years.
Then Eli emerged again, dragging his unconscious grandfather across the roof while flames chased them both.
The roof collapsed seconds later. They survived. Barely.
For three days, Eli remained beside his grandfather’s bed in the town clinic, refusing sleep. Refusing food.
And when the old man finally woke, his first words were:
“You idiot boy.” Eli laughed and cried at the same time. That was when Ember understood.
The perfect human did not exist.
Humans were selfish sometimes. Frightened. Angry. Weak.
But the right human kept choosing goodness anyway.
Again, and again. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
That night, beneath the pale glow of the moon, Ember stepped from the spirit world into Eli’s.
He froze when he saw her.
Silver fur shimmered softly.
Tiny embers danced from her tail.
Her eyes reflected starlight older than mountains.
“You’re real,” he whispered.
Ember approached carefully.
“You took your time,” Eli said with a shaky laugh. “You knew?” “I hoped.”
Spirit animals never spoke aloud to humans. The bond was deeper than language.
So, when Ember pressed her forehead gently against his chest, Eli felt everything at once:
Her centuries of loneliness.
Her fear.
Her endless searching.
And Ember felt his too.
The grief he carried quietly.
The exhaustion.
The stubborn little flame inside him that refused to die.
The connection blazed bright enough to illuminate the snowy rooftops.
Far away beneath the First Tree, ancient spirits lifted their heads in surprise.
Ember had finally chosen.
Not the strongest human.
Not the wisest.
Not the purest.
Simply one who kept trying to be good in a world that made goodness difficult.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
Together, boy and spirit looked toward the coming dawn.
For the first time in over a century, neither of them felt alone.