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I howl.

It’s not just a sound. It’s an ache. A wound ripped open wide, poured into the air. I scream his name without words, declare my heartbreak in the only language the wild still understands.

He died alone. And we weren’t there to stop it.

17

STACY

Along table. A single chair. And more silence than I know what to do with. That’s all that’s left in this room. That’s all that’s left of my best friend’s world.

Erica sits alone in Sam’s cabin, in the center of the living room—where the light doesn’t dare touch the corners. I watched her direct his brothers, her voice tight and hollow, as they laid Sam’s body on the table like a sacred offering. Then she asked for space. Not help. Not comfort. Just space. Just solitude—the kind that aches.

No one argued. No one dared.

Outside, grief carves itself into the people who loved him. Monica crumples in Raul’s arms, her sobs tearing through the hush that has settled over dusk like a veil. They don’t speak, just cling to each other like they’re two survivors of a wreck. Her hand slams against his chest—once, twice—like raw pain looking for an exit, anywhere but in. Ray watches, crying openly, helpless. Salt tracks stain his face, glinting in the fading sun. He doesn’t try to stop them.

And Helena… She stands apart, still and silent. The infamous witch of Dawson, now just a woman mourning one of her favorites. I see her press her wrist to her mouth, trying to quiet the tremble in her breath. The odd sniffle escapes anyway. She doesn’t speak. I don’t think she can.

And me?

I’m just here—awkward, aching—standing in the wreckage of someone else’s world. My heart feels like it’s been shattered with a sledgehammer, even though I barely knew Sam. Not like Helena, or Ray. And certainly not like Erica. I’d heard stories—how kind he was, how fiercely he’d loved her, how ready he was to build a future with her. A good man. One of the good ones.

And now he's gone.

What do I even do? What do you do when the world caves in around people you love and you’re still standing? Do I say something to Ray? If I could, what would I even say? There’s no sentence strong enough to stitch a soul this torn. No words that will make sense of this. So I don’t try. I stay close, hovering like a ghost, hoping he sees I haven’t left. That he’s not alone.

If he asked me to stay up all night, I would. If he needed me to sit beside him and say nothing until morning, I’d do that too. It won’t bring Sam back. But maybe… maybe it will help him breathe.

I move toward Helena. She stands so still it’s like she’s carved from stone. Staring off into some far-off memory only she can see. I move quiet and hesitant.

“Helena?” My voice comes out hoarse. “I’m so sorry for all of this. I know you and Sam were close.”

She turns her head slowly, her gaze catching mine. Her eyes are rimmed with red, glassy with unshed tears.

“Thank you, dear,” she says softly, her voice thin as a thread. “I love this family with all my heart. But yes...Samuel was my favorite. We had a bond. From the very start.”

There’s a movement behind me—footsteps and soft chatter. I glance over my shoulder and see the people of Dawson arriving. Women clutching pale roses of white and pink. The men walk silently beside them, solemn and slow.

“News travels fast around here,” I mutter, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

“It surely does,” Helena says with a tight sniffle. “They’ve come to pay their respects. He was a hero to many.”

A beat of silence passes between us before I speak again. “Maybe this is the wrong time to ask this, but…” I drag a hand through my hair, exhale slowly. “What the hell could’ve done that to him? He was strong. So damn strong.”

Helena looks at me then, and the weight of her gaze nearly knocks the air out of my chest.

“You’re right. Thisisthe wrong time.” Her voice is gentle, but firm. “Tonight is for mourning, not questions. Go to Ray. He needs you.”

My throat tightens, and it feels like my heart is clawing at my ribs, desperate to get out.

“And do what, exactly?” My voice cracks, splintered and frayed. “He lost his brother. What could I possibly do?”

Helena doesn’t flinch. She tilts her head and asks, “What does your heart tell you to do?”

I meet her eyes—and there it is. The answer. It doesn’t fix anything. But itissomething. I nod and step away.

Ray is on his knees, hands on his thighs, trembling. His head hangs forward like gravity itself is too heavy to fight. His shoulders quake with silent sobs. Itwrecks meto see him like this—a man who’s always seemed invincible, now cracked wide open and bleeding grief.