After her words, she gently wiped my tears.
Red-eyed, I nodded and gripped her hand tightly, hoping to offer some comfort and ease her sorrow.
Despite her outward strength, I knew my motherâs grief was deeper than mine.
The past few days had seen her take on not only my injured fatherâs care but also the burden of leading the pack through an uncertain future.
She looked worn, aged beyond her years.
Streaks of silver now threaded through her hair.
âMomâ¦â I choked back a sob.
A short time had passed, yet so much had changed, the world feeling utterly different.
Fate was a fickle thing.
No one could predict what tomorrow might bring.
Looking at her grief-stricken face, I yearned to comfort her.
But my own heart ached, the sorrow a heavy weight I couldnât shake.
How could I comfort her when I myself needed solace?
My mother was the same.
We simply stood, hands clasped, before my fatherâs body, a heavy silence settling between us.
The war had raged for days, many outlying camps ravaged by Galeâs forces.
Our pack, though momentarily spared, bore the scars of battle.
The tranquility of the past was shattered, replaced by devastation.
Broken homes, cracked stone, the acrid smell of smoke, and the metallic tang of blood hung in the air, a grim symphony punctuated by wind-carried cries and sobs.
It was an atmosphere thick with profound sadness.
Given these grim circumstances, a grand funeral for my father was out of the question.
Opting for practicality, we held a simple ceremony.
After discussion, my mother and I buried him in a beautiful cemetery nestled on the packâs suburban hillside.
Each sunrise, the first rays of sunlight would bathe the meticulously groomed lawns in warmth.
My father, who had dedicated his life to the pack, deserved a peaceful and quiet afterlife, free to wander amidst natureâs embrace.
On the day of his burial, white petals scattered along the path, stirred by the wind as our pack residents bowed their heads in solemn mourning.
Devout and cryptic chants filled the air, a final farewell to their former Alpha.
âPatrick⦠My mother reached out a hand towards my father, as if to grasp something, but she held nothing but air.
â
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling like pearls from a broken string.
Silent sobs wracked her body, threatening to topple her with grief.
I steadied her with both hands, my gaze fixed on my fatherâs burial.
He was gone.