She awoke under the pine trees, breathing in its heady perfume as she blinked the grogginess out of her eyes. The river flowed beside her, and she couuld hear the pleasant sound of birdsong around her. The scene was picturesque, yet something seemed wrong.

Instantly, she froze. Standing before her was the moon, his pale pelt slick as rivulets of water dribbled out of his fur. His eyes were full of concern for her, and he seemed happy that she had awoken.

"Who. . . what?" she stammered, confusion tainting her mew.

His brow furrowed, but he attempted to disguise his concern with a charming smile. "You tried to- to take your own life," he explained in a quiet, almost mournful tone. "And I. . . I saved you." He shook his head, as if shaking off the memories of the previous night. She could see the lasting fear in his eyes, almost similar to her fear of losing the thistle.

"What day is it?" she asked abruptly, fearful. She needed to visit the thistle's grave every day. Surely it had not been more than a sunrise. . .

"You've been asleep for three sunrises," he responded apologetically.

All at once, she felt the weight of a thousand suns crash upon her. The thistle's memory. . . he had been forgotten. He could never be forgotten. It was all her fault. This was all her fault. She wanted to die. She wanted to escape. She needed. . . she needed him. The real question was. . . who was him? Was he the thistle? Or was he the moon?