She always called me Sunshine. She said it was because my hair caught the sunlight like a beacon, bright and warm, just like me. I was the little sister, always in her shadow, but she never made me feel small. Not back then.
One day, when the trees were heavy with the scent of pine and the air was crisp with the promise of autumn, Gloria came to me with a gleam in her eyes. “Sunshine, I’m going hunting in the forest. Wanna come?”
I was lying on my bed, half-asleep from a lazy afternoon. I yawned and stretched, glancing up at her with half-lidded eyes. “Nah, I think I’ll stay here and nap. You know me—your little lazybones.”
She laughed softly and ruffled my hair. “Alright, little lazybones. I’ll go by myself then. Don’t get too bored without me.”
I watched her leave, her steps light and eager, and I remember feeling a pang of guilt. I should have gone with her. But I shrugged it off. "She’ll be fine," I’d told myself. Gloria could handle herself in the woods. She was always the stronger one, the braver one.
But then she didn’t come back that night. Or the next day. And the whole pack descended into chaos.