ACT III ▬▬▬▬ time.

"It's time, my sweet girl," Jessica murmured, her voice as soft as the breeze that stirred the morning mist. The back of her hand traced gently over the weather-worn stone, her fingers following the faint grooves of the name etched into it.

Winter had passed like a slow exhale — heavy, hushed, and unwilling to let go. But spring had come at last, shy and sudden, and with it, the flowers had begun to bloom once more. Tiny buds pushed through the soil, stretching toward the light, fragile yet determined. Vines with budding heads twisted themselves around the grave's edges, climbing higher each day, wild and free, unbothered by time. Their roots drank deeply from the earth, and their colours were rich, defiant, alive — and that was when Jessica knew.

She smiled softly, eyes glistening with something too old to be just memory. "Come back to us," she whispered, finally, her voice nearly lost among the birdsong and rustling leaves. She knelt for a moment longer, brushing her fingers over her lips and then pressing them gently into the warm, damp soil — a quiet promise, a blessing, a call to the dead.

The woman rose slowly, her knees aching faintly with the movement, and turned toward the forest. She stepped carefully at first, as though the earth might not let her go, and then more confidently, her boots moving along the narrow path that twisted between the trees. The woods welcomed her in silence. The trees stood tall and brighter than before. The wind was almost playful bristling through her hair and winding around her limbs like an eager child, pushing her forward as if it too remembered.

She smiled thoughtfully, pausing to glance over her shoulder once — back at the stone, now nearly hidden beneath spring's offerings. The wind whispered if you listened closely, and the trees — ancient and knowing — spoke in hushed secrets. They remembered things people had long forgotten.

It is in an Omega's blood to listen. To feel. To wait. And to know when the time is right.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The pack house was heavy. Still. Silent in a way that made the walls feel closer than they should, like the air itself knew what today was. It was Hailey Omega's eighteenth birthday — a day she'd spoken about since she was small. The day everything was supposed to change. The day she would finally be free. She used to dream about it, whispering plans into the wind, laughing about the future like it was promised.

But the house didn't feel like it was holding a celebration. It felt like it was holding its breath.

Emily stood in the kitchen, shoulders tense, eyes dull with exhaustion that went deeper than a sleepless night. She always found joy in the act of cooking — the stirring, the scent of sugar and spice, the quiet rhythm of it. But not today. Today, she moved on autopilot.

Vanilla cake with cherry filling — Hailey's favourite. The recipe hadn't changed, but everything else had. Emily's hands were steady, but her heart wasn't in it. Still, she baked. Because that's what Hailey would've wanted. Because doing something felt better than doing nothing.

Sam had let up on the patrols, just for the day. He didn't say much about it, but everyone understood. He carried grief like it was stitched into his skin.

Today wasn't just a reminder — it was a wound.

They all felt it. When an imprint dies, the pack doesn't just mourn — they unravel, a little. The threads that keep them grounded snap loose, one by one. The loss isn't private. It's collective. A heartbeat missing from the rhythm they all rely on.

No one knew how the fire started. The La Push police ruled it "inconclusive," stamped it on a file and called it done. But no one in the pack believed that. Not really. It had been too fast, too cruel, too... off. Something had started that fire. Something wrong.

Emily placed the candles on the cake with careful hands, only three — one for the past, one for the present, and one for whatever future they were trying to hold onto. Seth stepped forward quietly, not waiting to be asked. He blew them out with one breath, his eyes never leaving the flames until they vanished into smoke.

"You wish for something?" Jared asked, his voice low, strained like he hadn't spoken in hours.

Seth gave the smallest nod. "Yeah..." he said, barely above a whisper. He didn't need to finish. No one asked. They all knew. They all wished the same thing — that Hailey was still alive. That she had made it out. That today was full of laughter and teasing and too much cake instead of this quiet, aching kind of grief.

Paul stood up so suddenly his chair scraped hard against the floor, the sound slicing through the silence. He didn't say a word as he stalked out, steps fast, almost angry, the front door slamming behind him as he took off down the porch steps and into the trees. No one followed. Sometimes grief needed space to breathe.

Inside, the cake sat untouched. The candled smoked silently, the smell filling the house like a disgusting reminder.

And the silence pressed in again, heavier than before.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

As the moon rose, pale and heavy in the sky, fingers clawed against rotting wood — nails snapping, skin tearing. Splinters embedded themselves deep into raw flesh, and with every desperate pull, soil slid into her mouth, her nose, her lungs. It burned. The weight of the earth above her chest pressed like a curse, like the world was trying to keep her down, buried. Forgotten.

But she didn't stop.

Her hands kept moving, frantic and sure, tearing through the wet soil. Each gasp for air came with more dirt, more panic, until—finally—her fingers broke through to nothing. Air. She clawed upward, body straining, dragging herself out of the earth like something reborn.

Her lungs choked on freedom as she fell onto her side, coughing violently, soil spilling from her lips. Her body shook from the cold, the sudden exposure. The summer night was cool against her skin, and the long cotton dress she wore clung to her like a second skin, soaked and heavy with mud. It had once been white — now it was something else entirely.

She lay there for a moment, unmoving. Breathing.

Then with a quiet, steady breath, she rose to her feet. Her legs trembled beneath her, but she moved forward, barefoot and silent, each step leaving behind a smear of damp earth. The forest stretched around her — tall, still, watching. Branches shifted above her, rustling like whispers, like they recognized her. The wind, soft and eerie, brushed her skin as though greeting something that shouldn't have returned.

She walked.

Twigs cracked under her feet, sharp stones bit into her soles, but she didn't flinch. Her path was clear, pulled by something unseen. The trees parted eventually, and she stepped out onto a gravel road, the stones harsh and unfamiliar beneath her bare feet. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, locked on the one thing in the distance that glowed warm against the darkness — a small yellow porch light. Familiar. Waiting.

Billy Black's home.

The house sat still, aged and quiet, as if holding its breath. The porch light buzzed faintly in the night air, a weak barrier against the shadows pressing in around it. She moved toward it slowly, her presence silent but heavy. The wooden steps creaked under her weight, loud in the hush of the woods. She stopped at the top step, not knocking, not speaking.

The door opened.

Just a crack at first. Light spilled out across her feet. The man on the other side froze, the breath catching in his throat before he fully registered what he was seeing. His hands trembled slightly as he wheeled his chair forward, pushing it past the threshold, out onto the porch. The disbelief etched into his face was sharp and raw.

"Hailey..." Billy Black breathed, the name catching on his tongue like a prayer or a curse. Shock overtook him — pure, unfiltered.

Her eyes lifted slowly to meet his. There was no warmth in them, only a deep, endless kind of knowing. "Death is coming," she said, her voice low, flat, otherworldly. "Following it is an abomination that will further destroy us."

Her words came out like muscle memory, like something not fully her own.

Billy's face twisted — not just confusion now, but something deeper. Recognition. Fear. He turned his head slowly toward the trees, eyes scanning the shadows as if they might move. The air felt different now. Thicker.

The ancestors had spoken.

And they were running out of time.

Rin speaks

You really thought I'd kill off my best girl ???

Anywho, this is your reminder to vote and comment or else next time she'll stay dead!