Since the day that Sparrowkit had died, her littermates had gone from strength to strength, playing with the objects that the Twoleg had provided. They'd been weaned (although Sparkpelt wished fervently that it had been onto prey and not Twoleg muck) and she could now enjoy some peace when she needed it. Her litter had been playing with Blossomfall, but in the last half-moon she had become too heavily pregnant to make the trip. She watched as they batted a poor replication of a mouse about, mewing with delight.

The Twoleg entry opened, and a few unfamiliar Twolegs entered, letting out yowls at the sight of the kits. Quickly, she had moved the toy away and curled herself around her protesting kits. The Twoleg who owned the nest picked her up, allowing the unfamiliar guests to see her kits. She hissed in fury – no one would touch her kits! – but then she was placed in a cage, the same one she'd been brought here in. She writhed around, desperate to get out. The kits' playful mews became mixed with Twoleg yowling.

Then her kits' mews turned to yowls of horror. She rammed herself against the cage, again, again and again, but it held firm. Her blood felt like snow in leaf-bare as she made several desperate escape attempts. The rapidly diminishing cries were fading now, but before the Twolegs' entryway shut again she heard the final, piercing cry – "Let me be with Mama!"

The cage was unlocked, and she pelted away, trying to scent her kits in the suddenly-cold nest. The Twolegs offered her water; she did not drink. The Twolegs offered her food; she did not eat. She remained scenting for the kits, for the way to get out. There was nothing.

Blossomfall lay on a bed of mosses, pushing. Her mate hovered anxiously beside her. She looked into his gray face and smiled. "It'll be okay." She told him as a contraction ripped through her. She dimly heard Willowshine congratulating her on a healthy young she-cat. Instinctively, she pulled the tiny gray scrap closer, giving her a good lick as the kitten began to suckle.

"No more kits coming. Congratulations on your daughter!" Jayclaw licked her ear affectionately, gazing down at their precious kitten.

"What shall we call her?"

"How about Mistkit, for the river? Her fur's a gray too."

"Perfect." And so they lay, a small family at last. Graystripe and Millie, anxiously pacing outside, were signalled to come in.

"She's beautiful, Blossomfall. What's her name?"

"She's Mistkit." Jayclaw answered, licking her cheek.

Both grandparents rushed to congratulate them on the name and the birth, and it was then that Blossomfall noticed the vole that they had brought. Murmuring a thanks, both Jayclaw and she attacked the vole. With Mistkit, things were looking up for the Clan.

Graystripe tucked his tail under his nose, drifting off to sleep. He expected to dream of his new grandkit, but instead, he found himself looking down at his sleeping form. The moon was higher in the sky than it had been when he'd retired for the day. He turned around in confusion, only to yowl in shock when he met the amused gaze of six starry figures. "Firestar! Silverstream! Feathertail! Bumblestripe! Briarlight! Sandstorm!" He hurried towards them, energy lighting his paws as he greeted his friends and family with purrs and nuzzles. Then there was weight as he realised what had happened. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

"Every cat must join StarClan's ranks eventually."

"I don't mind. I've lived a good life. It's just – couldn't I have spent more time with Mistkit?"

"StarClan do not control when cats die, otherwise no cat would die."

He nodded, following the crowd along a path of sky, looking back first at Millie, sleeping peacefully beside him, then Blossomfall, Jayclaw and Mistkit in the nursery.

"You can look over them."

He turned away, walking until he looked like a young warrior again and he gazed at a starry thicket. Smiling, he ran to greet his ancestors.