I buried the love of my life seven years ago.
I wore black for a year. I learned to sleep on one side of the bed. I visited his grave every single Sunday and told a cold stone about my days, because it was the only piece of him I had left.
I survived him. It cost me everything I had — but I did it.
Then a gaunt, bearded stranger walks through the compound gate, and I know the way he moves before I know his face.
He’s alive. He was alive the whole time.
And the wolf I loved came home a hollowed-out ghost of a man, carrying seven years of secrets and a body that’s barely holding together.
He left me to grieve a living man. He doesn’t get to just come back.
So why can’t I stop driving to his door?
