Years pass and the weight of death becomes a memory. Not a burden.

We never speak of the veil or what we’ve seen, unless the stars dim in the night sky in a strange way, or when the children ask why their parents bear the kinds of scars that aren’t from training with other wolves. We tell them the truth, in small pieces that they understand. That their mother fought beyond life, and their father once clawed his way back from the edge of madness.

That love, when it’s real, doesn’t just ...