Reggie had always carried weather in his veins. Even in the human world, still small and four-legged, he paced the window ledge whenever thunder rolled, tail flicking in time with distant flashes. Other cats hid from storms. Reggie watched them arrive like an old band he’d seen a hundred times but never got tired of.
Rain on glass, wind in the trees, the low electric rumble that rattled through the walls—none of it ever felt dangerous to him. It felt familiar. Like the world was humming a song he almost remembered.
Between storms, he slipped the way many cats did—into thin places, narrow cracks between here and elsewhere. A shadow too deep behind a couch that opened into a different alley. A patch of sunlight on a stair that smelled like a street he’d never walked.
But the night of the Storm Gate was different long before the first raindrop fell.
The sky over the city went dark in a way that had nothing to do with clouds. Colors bled from the world. Streetlights flickered, humming with a charge that prickled Reggie’s whiskers.
The storm remembers you.
Lightning stitched itself through the sky as clouds folded inward, spiraling with deliberate intent. This wasn’t chaos. This was a symbol being carved into the air.
Reggie knew—without being told—that this was not an accident. No thin place. No sleepy crossing. This was a door.
THE STORM GATE
Gates are not like other crossings. They are sharp. Intentional. They wait for those willing to step through on purpose.
Lightning widened the spiral until the distance between Reggie and the Gate felt like a jump he could make. A bridge of rain arched toward the burning center of the storm.
Most cats would have turned back. Reggie leapt.
The moment his paws left the ledge, gravity loosened. Rain froze in midair, each droplet reflecting not the cat he was—but the one he was becoming.
His body reshaped itself without pain. Hind legs lengthened. Spine straightened. Forepaws widened into strong, claw-tipped hands. Orange tabby stripes sharpened, edged faintly with lightning trapped beneath fur.
The storm did not give him power. It stripped away everything that wasn’t already true.
He landed on stone etched with a spiral and a jagged bolt—the Storm Gate’s mark. Thunder rolled softly, almost conversational.
Reggie drew a breath. The storm answered.
For the first time, he understood why the smaller crossings had never been enough. He had chosen the storm. And the storm had chosen him back.