Luna Moon fed strangers, but she had no home to keep them. On a cold morning she stood over her stone hearth with three tired travelers behind her. She was a wolf woman, white and grey, spots down her arms, dressed in a plain black dress and boots. She wanted one thing more than a mate or a full pantry. She wanted a pack that took in every wanderer, no matter their kind. But she cooked in a borrowed clearing, and each traveler she fed asked the same question. Where do we sleep tonight? She had no answer. Last night two of them left for a village that turned them away for being outsiders. Luna could not build a pack from people who kept walking. She needed walls. She needed a hearth that stayed. So she walked the ridge at dawn and found it. A broad wooden pavilion stood open to the sky, its roof wide, its posts thick and sound. The last owner had gone. Dust covered the counters. A great stone stove sat cold at the center, big enough to feed a crowd. Luna ran her hand along the cook surface and felt it. This place was made for gathering. But a bare kitchen would not make anyone stay. Hungry travelers wanted proof of welcome, not promises. Luna found the garden behind the pavilion, half wild and still heavy with food. Ripe tomatoes hung red on the vines. Berries darkened the bushes. Herbs grew thick between the rows. She carried armloads back to the stove. She lit the fire and let the stone grow warm. Then she cooked. She roasted vegetables until their edges browned. She simmered a berry sauce and baked bread on the hot surface. The smell drifted out past the posts and down the ridge. They came. Not just her three travelers, but others she had never met. A limping badger man. A pair of rabbit sisters with a torn map. A mole who spoke a tongue Luna barely knew. They stopped at the railing, drawn by the smell, unsure if they belonged. Luna waved them in. She filled bowls and handed them across the counter. She did not ask where they came from or what they were. She only asked if they wanted more. They ate under the broad roof while the fire warmed the stone. For the first time no one asked where they would sleep. They were already staying. By nightfall the pavilion held twelve strangers. Luna had her den at last. She had a hearth, a garden, and a full house. But as she watched them settle on the floor, she counted heads and saw the trouble ahead. Twelve mouths. One stove. A garden that would not feed them all for long. She had built her gathering place. Now she had to keep it fed.