Hope's POV.
I stand in front of the mirror, barely able to meet my own reflection. The girl staring back at me doesn’t look like me.
She looks like someone who’s been gutted and stitched back together with trembling hands. Her skin is pale, blotchy from tears. Her eyes are red, rimmed with shadows. Her hair hangs limp around her face, tangled and dull.
I drag the cloth gently across my cheek, wiping away the dried blood—not mine, hers. Sarah’s blood.
My stomach twists. I swallow hard, pressing a trembling hand against the sink to keep myself upright.
I’ve lost people before. I know what grief feels like. But this is different. This is guilt.
I lift the cloth again, try to clean the rest of it off, but my fingers clench instead. The fabric crumples in my hand.
I’ve healed wolves from
