The Morning the Grave Went Quiet
The funeral was held three days later at the edge of town, where the forest gives way to headstones and people pretend the boundary is permanent.
They came out of obligation more than affection.
Pastor Lewin spoke words that sounded rehearsed even to him.
I stood at the back holding a single white flower, wondering if grief could be felt by things that didn’t speak our language.
Then the birds went silent.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was worse.
Like the land itself had stopped breathing.
The sound came next.
Slow. Heavy.
Frozen earth compressing beneath something massive.
When people turned, panic spread faster than reason.
Branwen stepped out of the trees.
Someone screamed.
Someone dropped to their knees.
Sheriff Calder drew his weapon.
Deputies followed.
Radios crackled.
“Clear the area!”
“Tactical inbound!”
“Take the shot if he charges!”
The wolf ignored every human voice.
He walked to the coffin.
Lowered his head.
And collapsed against the wood.
Not lunging.
Not snarling.
Breaking.
The sound he made next silenced everything.
A raw, devastated grief that didn’t belong to a “monster.”
And for the first time, even the people who hated Isolde looked… unsure.
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