ARIA
The tears come hot and silent, soaking into the fabric of my mask. My shoulders shake with the effort of keeping quiet—of not letting anyone outside this room hear me fall apart.
She’s just an insignificant person.
The words echo in my head, relentless. Each repetition carves deeper, opening wounds I thought I’d sealed shut years ago.
I stare down at my phone, at the photo of my babies grinning with their Papa Bear, and something cracks open in my chest.
A memory surfaces—vivid and terrible and impossible to push away.
***
The forest is dark, the branches tearing at my clothes, my skin as I run. My feet are bare—I’d lost my shoes somewhere back near the ceremonial grounds, and every step sends pain shooting up my legs.
Behind me, I hear them. Howling and snarling. The pack hun
