The floorboards creaked with morning.
The kitchen smelled like rosemary biscuits, pine smoke, and a touch of lemon peel. The windows were open, and a warm breeze carried birdsong and the shrieks of my little sisters racing barefoot through the yard.
It felt like summer, like nothing had changed.
Except I had.
I still smiled. Still helped Viora braid her hair. Still sang while I swept the porch or chopped herbs in the kitchen. But there was a space inside me now — a hollow quiet where my wolf used to stir. She hadn't spoken in a week.
And I hadn't shifted.
But I was still here.
I rinsed the mugs slowly, humming as I worked. Something old. Something I didn't remember learning. The notes curled into the air like the wind carried them — softer, slower, as if the house was listening.
Behind me, I heard the hush of movement. Then Cecil's voice, gentle as ever.
"You always hum when you're thinking."
I smiled faintly, not turning. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
She came to stand beside me, drying a plate with the embroidered towel she kept for special days. The silence stretched soft between us.
"Will you sit?" she asked.
I dried my hands and joined her at the table. It was still set for breakfast — half-eaten toast, berry jam, crumbs from the triplets' messy hands. My place was clear, a warm mug already waiting for me.
Cinnamon bark tea.
She only made that when something important was coming.
I cupped it carefully, inhaling the familiar spice.
Cecil folded her hands in her lap. Her expression wasn't troubled. Just... gentle. Like she was smoothing the edges of something difficult before placing it into my palms.
"Dwyn," she began softly, "your father and I have been talking."
I nodded slowly. "About me?"
"Yes. About how strong you are. How much you've carried — and how long you've held it alone."
My throat tightened, but I stayed still.
"You haven't shifted. Your wolf is quiet. And the pack..." She paused, choosing her words. "They don't mean harm. But they see you. They're watching. Waiting."
I looked at her. "You think I need to get away?"
Cecil smiled, brushing a crumb from the table. "I think you deserve to rest where no one is waiting for you to be anything but yourself."
She glanced toward the open window, where the triplets' laughter still rang like bells.
"There's a town — near the edge of the human territories. One of the quiet ones. Safe. Simple. We have friends there. A woman named Margot owes your father an old favor. She keeps a cottage near the sea."
I blinked. "The sea?"
Cecil's smile deepened. "Yes. There's no pack to impress. No rank. No whispering. Just breeze and bread and books. She'll take good care of you, if you let her."
I didn't know what to say, part of me wanted to say no — to stay. To dig in my heels and prove I wasn't as fragile as everyone feared.
But the other part...
The part still aching from Kael's voice when he rejected me...
The part that hummed quietly when I dipped my fingers in river water...
The part that missed myself...
That part wanted to go.
"I'm not being sent away, am I?" I asked, voice low.
"No, sweetheart." Cecil reached across the table and placed her hand over mine. "You're being given space to find yourself again."
That's when my father spoke, his voice came from the archway — deep and sure, though he hadn't entered the room.
"You don't owe anyone an explanation for needing time," Papa said.
I turned slowly.
He looked tired. Older than he usually did. But there was something in his eyes — steady. Fierce in a quiet way.
"Your place in this pack doesn't change just because your heart's bruised," he said. "You'll always belong here. You'll always be mine."
My throat caught. "And if I don't come back the same?" I asked.
He smiled faintly. "Then we'll meet you where you are."