Chapter Fifteen

I didn't know the name of the village when I got there. Just that it was small, and it smelled like wet soil and chimney smoke. The streets were mostly gravel and packed dirt, broken up by old wooden fences and sagging porches. It looked like it had been forgotten by time.

I kept my hood up.

Humans weren't like wolves. They didn't just sense an outsider—they stared. Judged. Whispered. The stares followed me like shadows as I walked past their windows and rusty mailboxes. Some even pulled their kids closer. I wasn't sure what they saw in me. Maybe just a girl who looked too tired, too alert. Maybe something more.

Mason had told me to go east. That's where the gossip ran louder. The village markets. The church. The old bar by the highway that opened too early and closed too late. I was hoping for a name. A face. Anything.

I didn't get lucky at first.

At the little market with wooden bins of bruised apples and old jars of pickles, the cashier just blinked at me. "You lost, sweetheart?"

"No. Just passing through."

She nodded, uninterested, and handed me back my change without another word.

At the church, I sat in the back for half an hour during a small service. No one looked like my mother. No one smelled like her either. My wolf nose—what was left of it—could barely pick up a thing beyond the musty wooden pews and waxy candles.

By the time I wandered into the bar, I felt like a ghost of myself. But I needed to ask. I had to.

The bartender was wiping down the counter with a rag that looked older than the chairs.

I hesitated. "Excuse me."

He looked up. Mid-forties maybe. Grey in his beard, but sharp eyes. He glanced me over like he was trying to place me.

"You don't look like you're from here," he said.

"I'm not," I replied. "But I'm looking for someone. A woman."

His expression turned guarded. "Cops?"

I shook my head. "No. She's my mother. I haven't seen her in a long time."

That softened him a little. Not much, but enough that he leaned on the counter instead of walking off.

"Name?"

"Aira," I said. "Brown hair, about my height. She would've come here maybe seven, eight years ago. She had a baby girl with her."

He frowned, thinking. Then he scratched his jaw. "There's a few single mothers around. But that name doesn't ring a bell. You say she came from out of town?"

"Yes. She was with a man named John."

The name landed like a hammer. His jaw set. His eyes narrowed.

"John Keltner?"

I straightened. "I—I don't know the last name. Maybe. Do you know him?"

"Everyone around here does. Owns a run-down farm north of the highway. Don't come into town much. Keeps to himself. Folks say he's mean as a snake, worse when he drinks."

My breath caught. My heart started to race.

"Does he live with a woman? And a child?"

The bartender hesitated. "Yeah. Think so. His wife comes into town now and then. Real quiet. Never talks much. Brings that little girl—skinny thing. Looks like she hasn't eaten in days."

I gripped the edge of the counter. "Where's the farm?"

He looked me over, eyes sharp again. "What's your business?"

"She's my mother," I said again, firmer. "And that girl is my sister."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he pulled a napkin from under the bar and drew a rough map with a pen from his pocket.

"You didn't get this from me," he muttered.

"I understand."

"Take the old dirt path behind the market. You'll come to a fence with barbed wire. Cross it, and follow the trees west. That's the back way in. Safer."

I nodded. "Thank you."

As I turned to leave, he called out after me. "Hey. If you find her… get her out of there. No one deserves what she's gone through."

I didn't look back. "I will."

It was getting dark by the time I made it through the trees. My shoes were caked in mud. Thorns scratched my arms. But I didn't stop.

A few hundred yards ahead, beyond a field choked with weeds, stood a crooked farmhouse. The roof sagged on one side. The barn to its right looked half-collapsed. A single light burned in a window near the back.

And there—on the porch—was a little girl.

She was sitting on the steps, knees drawn up to her chest, arms around her legs. Her hair was tangled. She wore a too-big coat that didn't close properly. She looked tired. She looked small.

She looked like *me*, when I was younger.

I crouched behind a tree and waited.

A woman stepped onto the porch. I didn't need to see her face. I *felt* her.

Even with the years, the pain, the distance—I knew her.

Aira.

She crouched beside the girl, wrapped a thin blanket around her, and kissed the top of her head. Her shoulders were stiff. Her left cheek carried a faint bruise that hadn't fully healed. Her hands trembled when she tucked the girl's coat tighter.

I pressed my hand to my mouth, afraid I'd cry out and give myself away.

She was real. She was here.

The girl spoke, voice just barely loud enough to carry across the yard.

"Momma, do you think the stars are watching us?"

Aira looked up. "I think they always are."

There was silence for a moment.

Then the girl asked, "Do you think someone's watching us right now?"

Aira didn't answer right away. She looked toward the trees.

Right toward me.

Our eyes met across the distance.

She froze.

I froze.

And in that moment, I knew she knew.

Knew who I was.

Knew why I had come.

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but the door creaked open behind her.

A man stepped out. Big. Broad. A shadow in the doorframe.

"Why is she still out here?" His voice was thick with anger.

Aira turned to him quickly. "She was just going in. I was just—"

He grabbed her arm roughly. "Get inside."

The girl stood up quickly, eyes wide with fear.

"I said now!"

Aira didn't argue. She just pulled the girl into her arms and walked through the door.

It slammed shut behind them.

I stayed frozen behind the tree, heart pounding in my chest.

But even through the fear, through the sick twist of rage in my gut, one thing rang clear in my mind:

I found her.

I found my mother.

And I was not leaving without her.