She was still a cat. But now she wore a tattered fairy princess gown, one sleeve chewed by moths, the other glittering with genuine stardust. Her crown was a bent paperclip wrapped in tinsel.

A ribbon of starlight coiled around her matted fur. The cardboard box became a lacquered carriage of walnut and dreams. Her collar, a rusty bell, unfurled into a crescent moon scepter. And Neko—scruffy, weary, four-pound Neko—rose on two legs.

But as the boy ran home, clutching his perfect taiyaki, Neko allowed herself one small purr.

Maybe the universe needed a fairy princess who was also a judgmental, food-motivated stray.

System stable. For now.

She snapped her paw. The squashed taiyaki inhaled, puffed up, and began to glow. Golden steam carried the scent of vanilla and lost afternoons.

She groomed a paw, glanced at the moon, and whispered to no one: “ Umai. ”