It began with a pawprint.
Faint. Dustless. Pressed perfectly into the floorboards near the far edge of the room.

Simba hadn’t seen it when he walked in.
But something—some scent—pulled his gaze down.

He tilted his head. Sniffed. Once. Then again.

The pawprint was old, and not.
Familiar, but impossible.

He touched it lightly. It was warm.

Across the room, Miss Nibble froze mid-step. Her ears perked. “Did you hear that?”

“No,” Simba said too quickly.

Because he hadn’t heard it.
He’d felt it.

A hush settled over the space. It wasn’t silence—it was something deeper, older.
A kind of remembering.

The mirror, which had been flickering for days, now stood perfectly still.
No warping. No shimmer. No sound.

Just reflection.

Simba stepped forward, and as he did, something changed.
The room didn’t reflect him as he was.
It reflected him as he had been.

A little smaller. A little softer.
A version of himself curled up on the rug, waiting.

Waiting for someone.

He blinked, and the vision flickered.

Then—just for a second—he saw her.

A shadow. A shape.
Round eyes. Short frame. Watching from the glass.

Ogongyi.

She didn’t speak.
She never did.

But her eyes said everything:
She was still there.
Still waiting.

Simba didn’t speak, either.

He just sat beside the old pawprint, and waited with her.