Elder Galton gathered my gray ashes into a carved stone urn and sealed it himself. He carried it past the graveyard to the Ancestor's Shrine.
The sacred cave lay behind the waterfall, where the pack honored its greatest spirits.
Damp stone and wild moon-petal flowers scented the air. Falling water muffled the pack house beyond. My urn went on the highest ledge of the altar beside names I had learned as a child.
Galton stepped back, shoulders bent. I hovered near the cave ceiling and waited for him to leave.
He stayed.
After a long moment, he lifted his head. His cloudy eyes passed over the altar and the urn, then followed my faint shadow across the cave wall. They stopped where I hovered.
“I can see you, child,” he whispered, his voice a rough, gentle crackle in the sacred silence.
