The first time I saw her was when she was just a few moments into her life.

***HERE IS A SMALL NOTE***

You are going to die.

In fact, she hadn't evened opened her eyes when I first visited her in the tiny, crowded nursery, feeling the tugging sense that a soul was about to pass.

***ANOTHER SMALL NOTE***

Please, don't be frightened.

I'm trying to be as cheerful as possible about this.

Everyone – no matter what you think – will die sooner or later. It's just a matter of time. Trust me, I would know.

It befell me to take care of the animal's souls in the passing from their body to their place of rest. I must admit, the warrior Clans were always my favorite to visit – so interesting, so brutal. So desperate to cling to life, grasping at sands that quickly slipped through their... fingers, I suppose. The housecats were always the most boring, passing in their sleep, coughing up something that soon caused their demise. And their life, too, so boring and dull. Nothing like the Clans.

She was born in MarshClan – one of the less interesting Clans, if you ask me – in the dreary, mundane and personality-lacking midsection between autumn and winter, between the "leaf-fall" and "leaf-bare".

***A QUICK PICTURE OF MARSHCLAN***

Gray-and-brown clouds cling to the sky. Tall, nervous-looking reeds wave in the ticklish breeze.

The clouds above endlessly drip like a leaking sink a child has tried his hardest to turn off, but has not quite managed.

Drips of water gather together in secret clubs to form thousands of

puddles stretching across the wet land.

I knew one would pass, but I was not sure which – the small, frail black she-cat that had just been born, the frantically straining mother who cried out as she gave birth to new life, or one of the kits not yet born.

It turned out to be one of the latter, an even-smaller ginger tom with wiry-long legs and starving pale eyes. He did not stir, even as the white-and-black medicine cat tried to warm him with long tongue rasps – his fluttering heartbeat grew fainter and fainter before finally dropping into oblivion.

And immediately a faint, silvery-soft outline of his body appeared before me. I drew closer but he could not see me – none ever could. But instead of leading him off at once like I normally would, off to the field where one of their StarClan members would then take the lead, I hesitated.

I do not only sense the passing – I sense the life-force of creatures. And the one in front of me, the black she-cat who looked so tiny and frail, pulsed with such energy that I almost hesitated a moment longer.

But I had no time, and already the nameless soul was becoming agitated. I placed a gossamer touch on the thing and, as usual, his life flashed before me – my favorite part of collecting. This, being such a new passing, was nothing but a sense of dark wetness, a flash of brown-red light and a soft mewling.

So I led him off, to the field where he met StarClan. Of course he'd never remember me – and I allow StarClan to believe that souls magically appear there for them to meet, that they do it all themselves.

I am not so selfish as to take all the credit for myself.

***THE NAMES OF THE LIVING KITS***

Fernkit, Mosskit, and Owlkit.

… … …

The next time I saw her was not too long after. I had since forgotten about the black kit pulsating with life-energy, too wrapped up in collecting Clan cats, housecats, loners and rogues, Tribe members, and those cats from the realm Clan cats would never meet. Only cats – the occasional brilliant minded-dog came along, but rarely, and where would a dog's soul go? Their souls are content to romp about, unnoticed, unseen, unheard, unfelt, in the place where they once called home. Dogs are like that, I have learned from my flight about eternity.

But when I met her again, I recognized exactly who she was - where she had come from. She still was as frail as she had ever been, with bones sticking out like needles and large, sky-soft blue eyes. That day was during the chilled spring, the sun a pale blonde and the clouds large handfuls of dough splattered carelessly onto the pallet of blue.

And she was what was equivalent to eight moons, learning her place in MarshClan as a warrior's apprentice, guided carefully under the watchful eye of a mentor named Stormblaze.

Stormblaze – such a ravishing, searing name for such a mediocre cat. Oh, he was brave and noble enough, a medium-skilled hunter, and would give his life for others. But other then that there was nothing incredibly fantastic about him, and his brown-and-gray mingled coat blended in perfectly... with the background.

But she was learning much from him. That much I understood.

She differed greatly from her sister Mosspaw, who was loud – in fact, Fernpaw rarely ever opened her mouth, never let her honey-flavored words flow. Mosspaw, on the other hand, had a voice like granite and her words "flowed" like nails on a chalkboard. But she spoke often and loudly, and soon became popular with the other Clan members.

It was Owlpaw, Owlpaw who was different from both Mosspaw and Fernpaw. He was a pale gray, transparent and feather-like, a shadow on a sunless day – not distinguishable but still, always there. He seemed frayed around the edges like a well-worn sweater and his voice was as quiet as the sky.

And he was the next to go, which is an awful choice of words but an accurate one.

***A SAD FACT***

Fernpaw, as full of life as she was,

was to be haunted by death for the rest of her life.

Let me re-phrase that. She was not to be haunted by me, because I do not haunt. She would be followed, per say, by the passing of many of those around her, something I have a tie into.

The day was yellow. Murky clouds dryly drenched the blonde sun, and the air was damply colored. Fernpaw and Owlpaw hunted together, silence tying a tight knot of tension between the duo; but it was cut by the scissors of familiarness, and they soon became more comfortable with each other. No words cut the tangible silence, and the two communicated fairly well through bodily movements, flicks and twitches.

But Owlpaw was too concerned with the blackbird he was relentlessly pursuing to see the small cliff before him, and he had plummeted off it before he could realize what was happening.

When he crashed into the ground, I appeared next to his soul's outline, pale even after life. I looked up briefly to see the black she-cat's distraught face peering down, not seeing the peaceful soul next to me nor me, but only the broken body of her brother.

And I was shocked again to see her life-energy, but again could not stay. I could not comfort her even if I did stay.

When Owlpaw's life was channeled through me, I was given a taste of the pain he so tangibly felt. The pain of being ignored, of being invisible, was one that I was glad I would never be subjected to.

You understand, people do not simply ignore death.