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He pauses and the silence that follows is so heavy I can’t take a breath. The air won’t come. I’m choking, my vision blurring. Raul lowers his head, choking too.

“Farewell, Sammy,” Raul says.

The world is still. Even the breeze holds in deference to this moment. Not a cricket chirps or a bird calls. This is a moment for the entire universe to acknowledge the loss of my brother. Then the hissing fizz of the match flaring.

Nora’s hand trembles as she strikes it. She holds the tiny flame over the pyre, sobbing, the stick clenched between thumb and forefinger. Turning her head to the side she lets it drop. She gasps and stumbles back as the tinder catches with a whoosh.

Nora steps back, coming to a stop between Raul and me. She rests her head on my shoulder and I wrap my free arm around her waist. Sam’s body is wrapped and laid with care. It looks like he’s sleeping and might, at any moment, wake up. Might crack a joke, ask who in the hell had the bright idea to set him on fire.

He doesn’t. And it hurts. So fucking much.

The flames lick up the logs, climbing greedily towards him. The flames lick up the logs, crackling and spitting sparks into the dusk as they ascend the wooden tower. Then it’s licking at the edges of the cloth. Curling around his too still form. Waves of heat slam against me, but I don’t move.

My eyes sting, but I don’t blink. I can’t. My mind slips back—to the night I found him. His still body in the dirt. The unnatural quiet. The blood. The way the stars overhead seemed to dim in deference.

“I love you…” Erica’s voice rises over the flame’s roar. She steps forward, barely beyond the boundary of the fire. She stares, eyes locked on the place where his chest used to rise and fall. Her words tremble. “You’ll always be my Sammy,” she chokes. “You’re not supposed to leave me, you hear? Never. It’s not fair!”

She lurches forward, but Monica and Stacy rush in, stopping her from throwing herself into the fire. Her sobs tear through the night as she collapses into her friends’ arms. My heart shatters. As bad as my own pain is, I can’t imagine hers. They pull her away but her wails echo through the clearing like the sound of a soul being torn in two.

I watch the three of them vanish into the crowd, swallowed by a forest of mourners. My throat clamps shut. I knew she loved him—I saw it in her eyes, in how she softened and shone around him.

But now?

Now Iknow.

She would’ve walked into that fire if they’d let her. Just to hold him one last time. To whisper his name against his skin, feel his heartbeat against hers for one more second. She thought they had forever. And they should have.

But we don’t get to choose how our stories end.

Even when we’ve earned something better.

19

STACY

Three days after Sam’s cremation, Dawson doesn’t feel like Dawson anymore.

The small town that once buzzed with casual greetings, familiar laughter, and the comforting murmur of everyday life has fallen quiet. Too quiet. Even the wind feels different—less playful, more solemn, dragging its feet through empty streets like it, too, is in mourning.

Gone are the spontaneous porch gatherings, the impromptu backyard dinners that used to last until the moon crested over the treetops. Shifters are social by nature—pack-bound, even when not in a pack. But now? Now they’re all just ghosts haunting their own homes. People glance away instead of making eye contact. Once friendly waves are stiff. Greetings are muttered and cut short, as if speaking too long might unleash the grief none of us want to touch.

Sam wasn’t just someone. He was the best of them. There’s this gaping hole where he used to be, and everyone’s afraid to get too close to it. But in my heart—in the stillness I carry—I’m clearer than I’ve ever been.

Somehow the grief sharpens my thoughts. Slices away the noise. I know what I need to do—where my place is now. In loss I find what matters most. I split my time between Ray and Erica, but focus especially on Erica. She’s unraveling, thread by thread, and I’m trying to hold her together with the gentlest hands I can manage.

I scrub dishes while she stares out the window, lips pressed tight. I sweep while she folds laundry with shaking fingers. I tidy while she refuses to eat. And when the storms inside her break through—because there is only so long she can avoid them—I anchor her.

“There’s nothing left for me here,” she says one night, voice barely a breath above the hum of the refrigerator. “Being around his family is painful.”

I should press. Challenge her. We used to dissect decisions like this together, debate them until every angle had been uncovered. But now, she’s this fragile, grieving thing, and I can’t risk pushing her over the edge. Erica’s always been passionate. Sharp. Bright.

But when she’s this emotional, logic slips right through her fingers. I know from long experience that talking to her when she is like this is like trying to hold water in my hands. All I will get is soaked and empty. She’s not ready for that conversation. And I can’t argue with someone who is drowning. I pull her into a hug and hold her while she cries.

By the fourth day, I’m running on adrenaline and silence—the kind that clings to your skin and makes your thoughts louder than they should be. I’m on my way to refill the kettle for yet another cup of tea when someone slams the against the frontdoor. It’s not a knock—it’s a series of five hard slams, each one more frantic than the last.

“What the fuck,” I mutter, rushing to the door to find out what is so violently important.

I whip the door open, heart hammering, and find Monica. She’s wild-eyed, breathless, like she ran all the way from the valley. She has a gray dossier clutched to her chest like it might fly away if she loosens her grip. I stare at her not comprehending what she’s doing.