手很冷 (traben)

On one world I encountered a feline species who spoke only in song. Beautiful. Strangely inviting given what should have been an obvious animosity. Their matriarch sung the history of her people and it was one of mystery, reverence and wonder. Their world was dying though. Its sun growing dark, illuminating them by moonlight alone. Still they sang. Songs of joy, for the time they had. Not songs for a time coming to an end. I offered to take them to another world, to save them. But they just smiled and shook their heads. I still think about them sometimes.