Midnight had cast its heavy veil, and the house seemed to breathe in sync with the stillness outside. The darkness pressed against the walls, swallowing the faint creaks of settling wood and the distant murmur of the wind. The air carried a somber chill, curling into every corner like an unwelcome guest. Raye's bare feet moved soundlessly across the cold tiles, her nightgown clinging to her as though the fabric itself sought to shield her from the weight of her grief.
Her hands trembled as she trailed them along the banister, her steps faltering under the gravity of emotions she couldn't outrun. Her chest heaved with the effort of holding back tears that threatened to spill, her throat raw from crying into the silence of the night. The house, though familiar, felt foreign—a stranger's space echoing memories she couldn't escape.
At the edge of the living room, a framed photograph hung crookedly on the wall. It hadn't always been like this. The frame used to be pristine, polished, and lovingly straightened by Bea's meticulous hands. Now, it hung like an afterthought, tilted slightly as if the house, too, had given up. Raye stopped before it, her knees trembling. She reached out but stopped short, her fingers hovering above the glass.
"Mama," she whispered, her voice trembling under the weight of her sorrow. The single word slipped through her lips, fragile and fleeting, before shattering into the emptiness around her. Her knees buckled, and she sank into the plush carpet below, the tears that had threatened finally streaming down her face. They fell soundlessly, soaking into the fabric beneath her.
Her mother's smile stared back at her from the photograph, warm and unchanging—a cruel contrast to the hollow ache in her chest. "Why did you leave us?" she choked out, though she already knew there'd be no answer.
---
Upstairs, Edwards sat on the edge of his bed, a statue carved from stone. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his breaths shallow and labored. The silence of the house was deafening, broken only by the faint rustle of the breeze sneaking through an ajar window. His hands rested on his thighs, clenched into tight fists. Each knuckle gleamed white, the tension rippling through his forearms like an exposed nerve.
The air inside his room felt thicker than outside—almost alive with the weight of his thoughts. Memories of Bea's laugh, her touch, her presence, assaulted him, relentless and sharp. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding against the emotions threatening to spill over.
He pushed himself to his feet, his movements slow and heavy, like wading through quicksand. The coolness of the floor seeped into his skin, but he hardly noticed. His hand ran over his face, fingers scraping over stubble he hadn't bothered shaving. Every fiber of his being ached with exhaustion, yet rest was elusive, a mocking mirage just beyond his reach.
The hallway outside his door stretched long and shadowed, each step resonating louder than it should. He approached Raye's room, his footsteps hesitant, as though drawn by a force he couldn't resist yet feared confronting.
He stopped at her door, the faint glow from beneath it confirming what he already knew—she was awake. He leaned against the doorframe, his forehead resting lightly against the wood. A part of him wanted to go in, to comfort her, but another part feared that seeing her pain would break him entirely.
Instead, he turned and descended the staircase, his movements deliberately slow, his mind preoccupied with memories that refused to fade.
---
In the living room, Edwards found himself drawn to Bea's portrait. Her eyes, bright and full of life, stared back at him, mocking the emptiness that consumed him now. He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the frame as if touching it would bring her back.
"It's today, Bea," he murmured, his voice hoarse. His lips curled into a semblance of a smile, but it was fleeting, bitter.
The wolf inside him stirred. It clawed at the edges of his restraint, a primal urge for release. He had caged it for years, promising Bea he wouldn't let it define him. But now, the pain was unbearable, a beast in its own right.
Edwards stepped back from the photograph, his breaths coming faster. His hands went to the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head before letting it fall carelessly to the floor. Each piece of clothing followed until he stood bare beneath the dim light filtering through the curtains.
The shift came like a storm, violent and unstoppable. His body convulsed, bones snapping and reshaping themselves with a grotesque symphony of cracks and pops. His hands clenched into claws, his spine arching painfully as thick black fur erupted from his skin.
When the transformation was complete, a low, guttural growl escaped his lips. He paced the room, his claws clicking against the hardwood, his breaths ragged. Finally, with a powerful leap, he disappeared into the night, his howls reverberating through the stillness.
---
Morning came too soon. The faint glow of dawn painted the horizon, soft and unassuming. Edwards stood in the kitchen, his hands braced against the counter, his head bowed. The sink's cool surface was a small reprieve against the heat of his turmoil. The plates he'd arranged on the dining table sat untouched, a stark reminder of a family fractured by loss.
He glanced at the clock. 6:48 AM.
His mind wandered to Raye's face, red and swollen from crying. He could still hear her sobs, echoing in his ears like a ghostly refrain. "I can't do this," he muttered, his voice cracking. "Bea, how do I tell her?"
He wiped his hands on a towel, his movements deliberate and slow, as though dragging out the inevitable. He ascended the stairs, the weight of his task making each step harder than the last.
At Raye's door, he hesitated. His hand hovered over the wood, his knuckles brushing it lightly. He knocked, the sound timid. "Raye, sweetheart? Are you awake?"
No answer.
He knocked again, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "It's me, honey. May I come in?"
Still nothing.
He turned the knob, pushing the door open just enough to peek inside. She was lying on her bed, her back to him.
"Morning, Daddy," she said, her voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth.
"Morning, love," he replied, stepping inside.
He sat on the edge of her bed, his hand brushing against the comforter. He wanted to hold her, to shield her from the pain, but he knew no amount of fatherly love could soften the blow of what he had to say.
"Raye…" His voice cracked, and he paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Today is…"
Before he could finish, a sharp knock from downstairs cut through the moment. Edwards exhaled, a mix of frustration and relief.
"I'll be right back," he said, rising t
o his feet.
As he left, Raye turned to stare at the ceiling. Her face was blank, but her hands clutched the blanket tightly, her knuckles pale.