The phone was still warm against my palm when my father finally spoke. His voice carried the weight of a wolf who had spent countless nights calling into emptiness—hoarse, weathered, and tired in a way that sank deep into the bones. And yet, threaded through that fatigue was a steadiness I hadn’t heard since I was a child. A quiet peace that startled me more than anger ever could.
“Come back to me, Nyx,” he said softly, the years roughening every word. “I’ve waited twenty years for this.”
Twenty years.
Two full decades of hollow winters and endless moons. Of standing alone beneath silver skies, my wolf pacing restlessly inside me, trapped behind the walls I had built. Twenty years of silent wars—fought without witnesses—because my pride had been too sharp to bend, my wounds too deep to expose, and my spirit too fractured to return.
My legs weakened, threatening to fold beneath me. Instead of falling, I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed, my body giving in where my heart no longer could. Tears spilled freely, scorching trails down my cheeks, washing away years of forced restraint and swallowed pain.