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She had always held onto the fear that one day, she would wake up and he would be gone, off on some self-sacrificing journey, convinced that leaving was the only way to keep her safe from the forces that hunted him.
But over time, that fear grew smaller and smaller.
Every time she walked into the kitchen to find him cooking, turning to her with a soft smile.
Every time they fell asleep, curled up in each other’s warmth.
It faded to a whisper when their daughter was born, as she watched him hold her for the first time. She had seen the surprise in his eyes, and then fear, and perhaps just the slightest glimmer of pride as their newborn yawned, and two reddish-brown wolf ears flickered into existence.
It was barely a ghost of a thought by the time their son was born, already the mirror image of his father.
She might have forgotten she had ever felt that fear at all—watching him curled up in his wolf form, their two children climbing over him, shrieking with laughter as he let out exaggerated huffs of defeat.
But the day he sat her down, looking unusually nervous, it flared back to life. For one terrible moment, worst-case scenarios flooded her mind. Had they found him? Was he leaving? Was he about to tell her goodbye?
Instead, he lowered himself onto one knee and pulled out a ring.
And asked her to marry him.
And just like that, the fear vanished completely, replaced by warmth as she fell into his arms, their children’s delighted cheers ringing around them.
She let go of the fears that had once weighed her down.
And for the first time, she allowed herself to look toward their future with renewed hope.
They were arrogant. Complacent.
For thinking he was free.
He had gone out on what he promised was a simple errand, though he gave no details, just a coy smile. She didn’t press, though she had her suspicions.
He always had a particular glint in his eye when they spoke about the wedding.
But now, it’s late. And there’s still no sign of him.
She has stalled dinner for hours, ignoring her own growing unease until their children’s complaints became too much. Reluctantly, she serves them their portions, but leaves her own untouched, storing it in the fridge alongside.
She would wait.
She has been waiting a while.
Her calls go unanswered.
She tucks the children into bed, smoothing their hair and whispering gentle reassurances. Their father is just running late, she tells them. He’ll be back in the morning to wake them up.
She waits longer.
And then, finally, the front door creaks, the old handle squeaking as it turns.
It’s locked. She rushes forward, heart pounding, already picturing his sheepish expression as he steps inside, ready with some excuse, some charming apology for keeping her waiting.
But that isn’t what she finds.
Instead, he’s lying on the ground, one arm outstretched toward the doorway. A trail of blood stains the steps behind him. His clothes are in tatters, his arms and feet torn and raw. His glasses are cracked, and his face is streaked with grime and tears alike.
And yet—he’s smiling.
“Thank goodness… I made it,” he breathes. His voice is far, far too weak.
Her world lurches.
“Let me help you in—”
“No,” he rasps, barely shaking his head. “They… they shouldn’t see this.”
“What—no, I— I’m calling an ambulance.”
She fumbles for her phone, her hands trembling so badly she nearly drops it. She dials, presses it to her ear, barely processing her own words as she chokes out their address.
He barely seems to hear her. Instead, with great effort, he shifts to prop himself against the wall of their home, every movement making his entire body tremble. Instinctively, she reaches out to support him. He exhales a soft, grateful sigh and gently takes her free hand in his own—bloody, shaking, but still warm.
“They’ll be here soon, okay?” she murmurs through her tears. “Just hang on. It’s gonna be okay.”
But it’s as if he doesn’t hear her. His hand moves, slow and unsteady, reaching into his pocket. It takes agonizing seconds, his fingers fumbling, his breath hitching in pain. Finally, he pulls something free—a small velvet box, smudged with blood.
“Here…” His voice is barely more than a whisper as he pries it open with trembling fingers. Inside, two simple rings rest on an unmarred silk pillow.
“Take this.”
His voice is faint, wet, gurgling. He coughs—chokes—but swallows it down, forcing himself to speak again with renewed determination.
“At least I managed to…” His lips quirk into the ghost of a smile as he lifts a shaking hand to her face, brushing her tears away with his bloodied fingertips. “Deliver these to you.”
His eyes flutter closed, his face peaceful, almost as if he’s merely drifting to sleep.
She holds him close, tears streaming down her face, whispering his name, pleading with him to stay.
But help arrives far, far too late.
Afterward, time ceases to exist.
She barely remembers the paramedics gently guiding her away, wrapping a blanket around her trembling shoulders, dabbing at the blood on her hands. Someone speaks to her in hushed, careful tones, but the words don’t reach her. She feels empty now, hollow, like a body without a soul.
Somewhere in the chaos, their children wake.
She hears the small, confused voices before she sees them. Someone, one of the officers, maybe a paramedic, gently ushers them toward her. She drops to her knees, pulling them close before they can ask, before they can see the dark stain on the doorstep.
Their daughter asks where their father is, concern evident in voice.
The paramedics and police shift uncomfortably. No one answers.
Just pitying looks.
Their son tugs at her sleeve, looking up with wide, sleepy eyes. “Mom?”
That’s when she breaks.
The weight of it crashes down all at once, and she shatters beneath it. Her body wracks with silent sobs as she clings to them, pulling them so close she can feel their heartbeats against her chest. They’re all she has left.
Everything after that blurs into a haze.
She answers questions with hollow, mechanical words. No, she doesn’t know where he was before this. No, she didn’t see who attacked him. No, she’s not aware of any threats.
A lie.
The investigation leads nowhere. How could it end any other way? The things that took him from her are far beyond the reach of ordinary law, of simple policemen taking notes and shaking their heads.
There will be no justice for him.
Days pass, though she barely feels them. She moves through the house like a ghost, following routines that no longer mean anything. She tucks the children in at night and whispers empty reassurances, even as she curls up in their bed afterward, pressing her face into his pillow, breathing in the last traces of him before they, too, fade away.
And then, one evening, a kindly older officer stops by. He sits with her at the kitchen table, speaking in that same careful tone everyone has used since that night. He offers to help explain it to them. That their father isn’t coming back.
She nods, grateful.
But the children refuse to accept it. They are both adamant that he can’t be gone.
Every denial is another icepick to her heart.
And she has no idea what to say.
There is no funeral.
Who would come but herself and their children? They had no family left—no relatives to mourn with them, no distant loved ones to offer solace. And even if they did, she wouldn’t dare. She doesn’t know who is watching.
They found him, after all.
If they knew about the children…
The thought alone is enough to send ice through her veins. She cannot risk it.
So instead, she says goodbye in the quiet sterility of the funeral home, just her and their children, in the final moments before he is taken from them forever.
She wishes she could spare them this.
When she first saw him, laid out in careful stillness, cleaned up as much as the kindly staff could manage, she had taken his cold hand in hers. His fingers, once so warm, so full of life, were now unmoving beneath her touch. It felt wrong. He was meant to be here, to hold her hand back, to lace his fingers through hers the way he always had.
So she did the only thing she could. She slipped his wedding band onto his finger.
It was the least he deserved, that, at least, should be made right. His last act had been delivering it to her, his final gift. It should have been different. It should have been him, slipping a ring onto her hand as they stood together.
Not this. Not like this.
When it is time to leave him one last time, she hesitates. She can’t do it.
A terrible, selfish part of her wants to keep it—to take it back, to keep it with her always. One last precious memento. Something tangible, something real, something that proves he was here, that he was hers, that they had a life together.
Her breath shudders as she turns back, reaching for his hand once more. Gently, with shaking fingers, she removes the ring. The absence of it on his hand makes her chest ache, but she replaces it with something else, a feather-light kiss against his forehead.
A poor replacement.
She has not missed her Granny so keenly in years. But now, more than anything, she aches for the warmth of a steady hand on her shoulder, for whispered words of comfort only she could give. But there is no one left to guide her through this.
Only herself.
Her only comfort is a grim satisfaction, whatever was hunting him, whatever wanted him dead, will never have what they were after now.
But it is a cold comfort. And it does nothing to fill the void he left behind.
The weeks afterward are no better.
Every little thing reminds her of him.
Their son’s hair—the exact same shade, the same unruly softness already forming into curls, so unlike her own.
The apartment—now filled with too much of everything. Too many plates. Too many bowls. Too many chopsticks. The simple act of setting the table feels unbearable, an unspoken acknowledgment that one setting will never be used again.
Their bed—still holding the faintest trace of his scent. Still half-covered in his fur, the same fur she had teasingly scolded him for shedding everywhere. Now, she can't bring herself to clean it away.
A closet full of clothing that will never be worn again.
She sets up a small shrine in their bedroom. A modest thing. Just like him.
At its center, she places his glasses. Cracked, bent, and broken as they are. They had been a part of him, Of all the things he left behind, this is what reminds her of him most. More than anything, except the rings.
The rings…
She wears hers without hesitation, her wedding band nestled beside her engagement ring, a silent declaration to the world. She wants everyone who sees her to know.
That she was loved.
As for his ring, the one she had selfishly stolen back, unable to leave it behind…
She keeps it with her always, tied to a simple cord scavenged from an old necklace he had given her in the early days. It had been nothing special at the time, just a trinket, a small gesture of affection. But now, it carries more weight than it ever did before.
Now, it holds the last piece of him she can keep.
It rests against her chest, just over her heart.
Where he should have been. Always.
She has no family. No one but their children.
Friends come by, offering condolences, murmuring their apologies, telling her they’re here for her, that they’ll help however they can. Their kindness is real, but it is shallow. It does nothing to fill the void he left behind.
She refuses their help.
They found him. Even after all his precautions, they found him. And they killed him. She can’t let the same thing happen again.
The thought alone is enough to still the breath in her lungs.
So she bears the grief alone. She swallows it down and marches forward.
For their children.
Because there is no other choice.
Sometimes, she wonders.
Was it her fault he was dead?
If she hadn’t spoken to him that day, hadn’t asked him to stay. Hadn’t loved him.
Hadn’t tied him down with a legacy.
Would he still be alive? Would he have continued drifting from place to place, aimless but safe, beyond the reach of the forces that hunted him for nothing more than the sin of being born?
On the bad days, when the pitying looks weigh heavy, when their children’s grief becomes too much to bear, the thought consumes her. Grief curdles into something darker, something bitter and twisted. Equal parts despair and loathing. Loathing for the world, for forcing him and their children into hiding. For the ones who took him away.
For herself, for daring to love him.
On those days, she barely leaves her bed, too consumed by sorrow to function. Only when small voices break through, soft complaints of hunger, of boredom, does she stir, moving through the motions with mechanical indifference.
But on the better days, when grief is almost (almost) met by the warmth of happy memories and the laughter of their children, she knows such thoughts are foolish.
He had been happy. With her. With them.
He had wanted to stay. He had loved her back.
And he had loved their children. Loved them so deeply that he would never, not even for a moment, have regretted having them.
She is startled from her dreams by the sound of their little boy crying.
Relief washes over her, it wasn’t a pleasant dream. It was the same one she’s had almost every night since he…
But the relief sours into shame. How could she feel anything but guilt when the reason she woke was their son’s pain?
She needs to collect herself first. Seeing his mother in tears will do nothing to soothe him.
Once her eyes are dry (or at least seem so) and the brittle facade of comfort is in place, she creeps into his room.
He’s there, curled up in a tangle of blankets, his ears and tail on full display—just as they always are when he’s upset. She crosses the room and scoops him up, holding him close, murmuring soft reassurances. But the hiccups and tears don’t stop.
What can she tell him? That everything will be all right? The words feel empty. She can’t even make herself believe them—how could she possibly convince him?
Hot tears press at the corners of her eyes again, and she pulls him closer, pressing his small body against her chest. He can’t see her like this.
When he was a baby, when nothing else could soothe him, there was always one last resort—bringing him into their bed, wrapping him in their warmth until he drifted back to sleep. It always worked.
But would it now, with half of her missing?
She has to try.
As she carries him through the dim hallway, she steals a glance into the other bedroom.
Their daughter is fast asleep, murmuring softly to herself. A small mercy, at least one of them will rest peacefully tonight. A chill lingers in the air, and she makes a quiet note to check the window seal in the morning.
She settles onto the bed, rocking him gently, still whispering soft shushing sounds. But even as she holds him close, she knows—this was a mistake. The absence is unbearable here, in this once-familiar scene.
And yet, his tears begin to slow. His small body shifts in her arms, hands reaching toward the empty space beside her, his voice trembling with longing.
“Ojiwan!”
Her heart shatters all over again.
The mask crumbles. Hot, silent tears spill down her cheeks, her breath hitching as she clings to him. One arm remains wrapped around her son, but her free hand drifts to her collar, fingers closing around the simple ring hanging from its cord. She still wears it every day, even to bed.
It offers little comfort.
Her son’s eyes (so very like his father's) search her face, then flicker to something beyond her, something she can’t see through the blur of her tears.
He’s stopped crying now. Instead, he looks at her, worried.
If he can be strong, so can she.
She swallows down the lingering ache and musters a watery smile.
“I’m okay,” she whispers, smoothing his hair. “Let’s get some sleep, alright?”
He hesitates, glancing once more at the empty space beside her before turning back. Then, with quiet determination, he nods.
He’s so strong-willed—more than she is. Just like him.
Carefully, she tucks him into her bed. It feels vast, hollow. Too empty without him there. She doesn’t need to worry about rolling over and hurting him. She pulls the blankets up snug around her son, shielding him from the creeping chill that has settled into the room too, now.
She exhales, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead.
Sleep comes slowly, but this time, when it does, she dreams sweetly. Of endless days filled with love, with joy, with hope—for their children’s future.