The Years the Town Never Saw
For three years, I watched the seasons turn.
Isolde grew slower.
Branwen grew grayer.
He waited for her each morning.
Followed her steps like a shadow stitched to her heels.
Some summer evenings, music drifted down the ridge.
Not from a radio.
Not from speakers.
A hand-carved wooden flute.
One melody, repeated, shaped like grief.
And more than once, I could swear the wolf answered.
Not with a howl.
With something closer to harmony.
Then one winter… the smoke stopped rising from her chimney.
I waited longer than I should have.
Because denial is easier than grief.
When I finally climbed the ridge, I found Isolde in her chair, wrapped in quilts and silence.
The mountain felt hollow after that.
The sheriff came.
The coroner followed.
The cabin was locked with official indifference.
And nobody noticed the wolf at the tree line watching her body leave.
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