THE WOLF’S CURSE

The memorial service was small, just the way Dad would’ve wanted it. A handful of family, a few close friends, and a table at the front of the room filled with photos of a life well-lived. I stood in front of the largest one, a candid shot of him mid-laugh, his face crinkled with joy, a fishing rod slung over his shoulder. It was from our last trip together, two summers ago, before the diagnosis, before the chemo, before the hospital bed that had become his final place of rest. I stared at the photo, my chest tightening until it felt like I couldn’t breathe. Dad looked so alive in it, so full of the energy that had always defined him. It was hard to reconcile that vibrant man with the frail figure I’d last seen, pale and hollowed out by the cancer that had spread like wildfire. I hadn’t been there when he took his final breath. I’d been at work, sketching designs for a client who didn’t care about deadlines or family or the weight of guilt that now pressed down on my shoulders. “He talked about you all the time, you know.” Mom’s voice was soft, but it startled me all the same. I turned to see her standing beside me, her eyes red-rimmed but dry, her arms wrapped around herself as if holding the pieces together. She stepped closer, her hand brushing my arm. “Even at the end, when he could barely speak, he’d ask about you. He was so proud of you, Alec.” I swallowed hard, my throat burning. “I should’ve been there,” I said, my voice cracking. “I should’ve—” “Stop.” Mom interrupted me, her tone firm but gentle. She reached up and cupped my face, her thumb brushing away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen. “Your father loved you more than anything. He wouldn’t want you carrying this guilt. He’d want you to live, to keep going.” I looked back at the photo, my vision blurring. “He wanted to go to the Black Forest this year,” I said quietly. “We were supposed to go together. He said it had the best trails, the best views. He wanted to show me.” Mom was silent for a moment, then she stepped away, rummaging through her bag. When she turned back, she was holding a Tupperware container. It was so ordinary, so out of place in this moment, that I almost laughed. But then she placed it in my hands, and I realized what it was. “Half of his ashes,” she said, her voice steady but her eyes glistening. “He would’ve wanted you to take him there. To finish what you two started.” I stared at the container, my fingers tightening around it. It felt heavier than it should have, like it held more than just ashes. It held promises, regrets, and a chance to make things right. “I’ll do it,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll take him there.” Mom nodded, her hand squeezing mine. “Be careful,” she said. “And come back to me, okay?” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Instead, I just held the Tupperware close, my heart pounding with a mix of grief, determination, and something else I couldn’t quite name. Something that felt a little like fear.