As you push the door to the café open, the bell hung on the frame chimes, and to your surprise, something inside the establishment echoes back in a scattering of softer chimes. For a second you wonder if the sound is in your head. Then you see them.

They are tucked into the corner table by the door, near a big window, clad in all lilac & midnight. A tall cup sits at their elbow, crowned with foam and a dusting of cocoa. A slice of blueberry cake with ha few forkfuls gone. Between the cup and the plate lies a leather-bound notebook, open to a page crowded with small, careful handwriting and little sketches of bells and ribbons.

As they write, the bell tied to their tail rings in quiet, thoughtful notes. Another one glints from their throat, where a cloaklet is fastened. A third is hanging from a chain in their earring. Every time you peek, you notice another one. Even the smallest movement makes the air around them flicker with sound.

You stand there just long enough for the barista to clear her throat. You order on autopilot, eyes dragging back to the corner periodically. Pastel stockings. Lavender skirts layered like cream & frosting. Dark gloves, small black smudges at the tips - maybe ink? Long purple hair falling all the way down to the floor, held back with ribbons and a frilled headband that should look like a costume, but somehow does not.

The barista, following your gaze, smiles. "New regular," she say softly while the espresso machine hisses. "Be nice. They tip in charms." You laugh nervously, in disbelief. "Charms?" The barista tilts their head toward the corner. "You'll see."

Your name is called. You collect your drink and a plate with some blueberry tart you don't quite remember choosing. The café is so busy that the only free seat you can spot is the one across from the bell covered stranger. You hesitate. Then you notice the small sign on the table that reads "shared seating welcome" in looping handwriting. The letters look oddly similar to the ones in the notebook.

You clear your throat. "Excuse me. Is this seat free" They look up. Their eyes are violet, bright and sharp, pupils wide with surprise. A pair of cat ears flick on top of their head, edges pierced with tiny hoops, some connected by intricate chains, others with small bells hanging from them. There is a small, elegant beauty mark at the corner of their mouth. Up close, you notice they smell faintly of sugar and something floral.

The surprise quickly smooths into something trained. "Ah. Yes, of course," they say, voice low and warm. There is the tiniest chiming from their tail as they shift, drawing in their skirts to give you room. "Please, sit. I do not wish to hoard the sunlight."

You sit. Your chair scrapes, your drink sloshes, and a dark stripe of coffee leaps the rim. "Ah, no, no, no. It is fine," they say quickly, already reaching into a little bag hanging from the back of their chair. A folded handkerchief appears, lavender with stitched blueberry sprigs in the corner. They dab at the spill with quick, precise motions. You notice their hands are steady, but the tip of their tail is twitching.

"Thank you," you say. "I swear I am usually less of a disaster." One corner of their mouth curls. "Disaster is a strong word. The coffee survived. You survived. I have a handkerchief. All is well."

There is a beat where you could leave it at that. You could pull out your phone, sink into your own small digital world, and let the bells ring across from you without ever knowing why. Instead you glance at the notebook.

The open page is packed with little diagrams. The outline of a door, hung with strings of bells. Tables with headings like "intention", "note pattern", "guiding radius". Next to one sketch, a tiny drawing of what looks like this very café. "You work here" You wince as it comes out half statement, half question. "I mean. That looks like this place."

Their pupils narrow just a little as they smile. "In a manner of speaking," they say. "I am helping with… the warding. This street is unkind to the drunk and the lost. We are making it easier to find the door." They tap one of the diagrams with a gloved fingertip. The bell at their throat rings softly.

"Oh, 'Bells to guide travellers'?" you say, remembering something you read on a note by the counter a few days ago, about a coming community art project. "That is you?" "That is Ligatura," they correct gently, then their expression softens. "But yes. Also me." "Ligatura." "The Catenary Isles," they say, as if that explains anything at all. Their gaze skims your face, checking for recognition. When they see none, their shoulders settle in a way that looks both resigned and relieved. "You may consider it a very distant homeland."

"You are not from around here," you say, and immediately want to bite your tongue. "I mean, obviously, you are, you know, very local now, but… The ears. And the outfit. And the… bells?"

Their tail gives a small, delighted flick. The bell at its end chimes. "It is all right," they say, a hint of laughter in their voice. "I am not offended. These are traditional garments of the Catenary court. And the ears are quite attached." You laugh, tension bleeding out in a rush. "They look good on you," you say, "the garments, I mean."

You watch their composure stutter. Their pupils flare wide. Colour spreads across their cheeks, soft pink under the lavender light. The bell at their throat jumps as they swallow. "Ah," they say, then clears their throat. "Thank you. You are very, ah. Direct." "Sorry," you say, though you are not. "I just mean. You look incredible. Like a very fancy blueberry cake, one someone could fall in love with on sight."

Their ears angle back, then forward again. The tip of their tail lashes once. For a second it looks like they might actually hide behind their own notebook. "You should not say things like that so casually," they murmur. "Some of us are weak."

You grin. "Is that so, Your. What was it. Princex" Their head jerks up. "Who told you that title" You gesture at the notebook. "You wrote it on the corner. Princex of the Sacred Bloom, coordinator of bell wards. Very official looking."

They glance down, then cover the words with their hand so fast the bells all over them shiver. "Oh. That. It is more of a formality now. And please. Just Aranda is fine." "Aranda," you say, tasting it. Their name feels like sugar in your mouth.

"Then you can call me…" you offer your own name. They repeat it back to you, careful and precise, as if adding it to one of their diagrams. Something in your chest gives a small, surprised ache.

The conversation could end. It does not.

"So," you say. "Aranda from the Catenary Isles. What kind of project are you working on for this place?" They hesitate a moment, then turn the notebook so you can see. Lines of bells loop across the page, marked with tiny notes. "This street is a little cursed," they say. "Old shipping routes, bad deals, worse memories. People get lost between here and the bus stop far too often. The owner asked if I knew any… techniques that might help. In Ligatura we use bell strings to guide sailors through fog. I am adapting it for concrete and rain."

You lean closer. Their perfume smells like berries and something warm, and freshly baked. "And the blueberry cake," you say. "Is that a ritual item, too" They follow your gaze to their plate. The corner of their mouth lifts. "That is entirely selfish," they say. "It tastes like home."

You break a piece from your own tart with your fork. "Share with me," you say. "Tell me about home." They blink. The request hangs between you, small and huge at once.

Then they shift, drawing themselves up a little, shoulders rolling back. For a moment you see all the training, all the poise. When they speaks, it is with the rhythm of someone who has been telling stories for their people for a very long time.

They talk about the Catenary Isles, chains of land strung across a violet sea. Cities that ring like wind chimes during festivals. Ceremonies where a thousand bells are rung in unison and the sound opens doors between worlds. Blueberry orchards that bloom when they should sleep. Kitchens full of sugar and steam.

As they speak, they unconsciously act out their memories. When they mention stretching in sun patches between royal lessons, they demonstrate, arms reaching up until their back arches and the bell on their tail gives a lazy chime. When they talk about being nervous at court, their gloved hand comes up to smooth imaginary wrinkles in their sleeve, fingers brushing over their cheek as if wiping away flour.

You find yourself watching their mouth as much as hearing their words. At one point you say, without thinking, "You must have looked amazing in those ceremonies." Their voice catches on the next word. They purr, very softly, a vibration you feel in the air more than hear. "They are very formal affairs," they say, looking down into their coffee. "And very. Intimate. The garments are… involved. Many bells. Countless ribbons. I prefer not to discuss them in detail in public." The tips of their ears are very pink.

You smile over the rim of your cup. "Then maybe you can tell me about them somewhere less public. Some time." The silence that follows is not an awkward one. It is thick, electric. You can almost hear the clink of a new bell being added to whatever system runs their life. Aranda lifts their head slowly. Their pupils are wide again. The bell on their tail, their Soulchime, gives a single bright note. "I am still learning how to make plans in this world," they say carefully. "But I think I would like that."

They reache into their bag again, pulling out something small and metallic. A bell on a thin ribbon, the metal etched with tiny looping sigils. They set it on your saucer. "In Ligatura," they say, "we give guiding bells to travellers we wish to see again. If you tie this to your bag or your key ring, it will help you find this place. And perhaps. Me."

You pick up the bell. It is lighter than it looks, warm from their hand. "And if I want to find you somewhere that is not the café?" you ask, because at this point you may as well be brave.

Aranda makes a small sound that might be a laugh or a quiet panic.

"Then you may send a message," they say. "There is a number on the back of the loyalty cards by the register. It is mine now. They decided I should handle the art nights, and queer events and… All of that. If you text regarding those kinds of matters, I will answer." "Including matters like dinner," you say. Their tail curls around one leg of their chair. "Including those," they admit.

You ring the little bell once, just to hear its sound. It chimes, and so do all the tiny bells on Aranda. For a second the whole corner of the café feels threaded through with soft sound.

"Then I guess I will see you again," you say. They smile, small and bright and a little stunned, as if they still cannot quite believe that this is real. "I hope so," Aranda says.

Outside, the street is as confusing as ever. But when you step out into the evening, the bell at your side gives a soft tug on your attention, and for the first time the city feels a little easier to navigate. Behind you, in the window, a violet silhouette stretches like a contented cat in a patch of golden light, bells chiming along.