LISA
The pyres stretch across the field like fallen stars, each one a testament to another life lost. Twenty-seven flames reach toward the sky, and my heart aches for every single one. There's a sound barrier over the field, so wolves can howl and mourn.
It's haunting.
Ava stands before the first pyre, her voice steady as she speaks the names. She's grown so much. Even from my position at the back of the crowd, I can see how each name costs her, how she refuses to rush through them, even as her voice shakes.
My fingers find the familiar spot on my thigh, massaging the burning sensation that's been growing worse over the past hour. The pain makes me shift my weight, trying to find a comfortable position.
A particularly mournful howl rises above the others. Wolves of all colors lift their heads to join the lament. Their grief is raw in a way human mourning could never be, and my heart aches.
