Across the street, a cluster of sunflowers caught my eye in a flower shop window. They were bright, defiant, and alive.
Guilt hit me so suddenly my chest tightened.
I hadn’t gone to see Grandma. Or Mr. Oliver, not once.
My wolf gave a low, reproachful rumble, and I exhaled slowly, turning toward the shop.
“I know,” I muttered under my breath.
I bought two bouquets and some fruit, the scent of citrus and fresh petals clinging to me as I stepped back outside. A passing taxi slowed when I raised my hand, and soon I was on my way to Pine Hill Cemetery, the city fading behind me.
The moment I stepped through the gates, the air shifted.
Gravel crunched beneath my shoes as I walked the path. My senses stretched instinctively.
Grandma’s headstone came into view, and I paused. It was spotle
