She left before the sun rose.
The air was still, the sky barely touched by dawn’s pale fingers, and the world felt like it was holding its breath. Xochi moved silently down the house's stairs—one final ghost passing through the place that had caged her for so long.
Byron didn’t stir when she slid herself away from him. She left him nothing behind but a sketchbook page torn from its spine and placed carefully on the dining room table—a drawing of the cabin, the ocean behind it, and the worn book of the wolf prince next to it.
Goodbye, without saying the word.
Her backpack was light. Just a few clothes, a handful of cash she’d tucked away over the years, and her sketchbook, edges worn and corners curled from use. But the only thing that truly mattered was Byron’s hoodie, stuffed carefull
