My Grief Counselor’s a Liar

Elijah Black smelled the grief before he saw anyone. It clung to the basement hallway of St. Catherine’s Church like damp fabric and old sorrow. The subtle mix of cold coffee, stale carpet, and quiet misery settled around him as he paused with his hand on the doorknob. His pulse remained steady, his breathing was even. His heart felt silent, as if it had been wrapped in frost.

On the other side of the door, he heard soft movements. Someone shifted in a chair. Someone else opened a pack of tissues. The faint scrape of shoes on linoleum echoed through the thin wood. Every sound carried a story he did not want to learn.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

Yellow fluorescent lights flickered overhead in a low hum. They cast a muted glow over the circle of folding chairs in the center of the room. A cardboard box of tissues sat on a small stool. A battered coffeepot sat in the corner as if no one remembered how long it had been there.

Eight people looked up the moment he entered.

Dr. Patricia Chen rose from her seat with a small, collected smile. She held a clipboard tucked against her ribs, and her cardigan sleeves were pushed to her elbows.

“Mr. Black, thank you for coming,” she said.

Elijah gave her a brief nod. He did not smile. He moved toward a chair near the far wall. It was the closest seat to the door. That detail was not a coincidence.

“Everyone,” Dr. Chen said as she turned toward the circle, “this is Elijah. He is joining us for the spring cycle.”

The group watched him with polite curiosity. No one spoke.

That was fine.

He had not come for conversation.

“Would you like to introduce yourself?” Dr. Chen asked.

Elijah let his gaze travel around the circle. A woman in a floral dress clutched a tissue. A man in a worn jacket stared at the floor. Another woman twisted her wedding ring until her fingers turned red.

He answered in a calm, even tone. “Elijah Black, thirty-two. Chief executive officer of Lunaris Industries.”

Someone coughed.

Dr. Chen waited a moment. “Would you like to share who you are grieving?”

Elijah lowered his eyes to his hands. His knuckles were pale, but he had trimmed his nails neatly. There was no ring on his left hand anymore.

“Elena,” he said. “My mate.”

The word settled over the room without meaning for anyone except him.

The woman in the floral dress shifted quietly. She would later introduce herself as Margaret, and grief drifted from her like soft perfume.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Dr. Chen said gently.

Elijah did not answer. He had heard that sentence so often it had lost all shape and weight. Nothing anyone said could reach the place where the wound existed.

The group continued without him.

Sarah spoke about her son. Her voice shook, but she kept going. Robert talked about his husband and the slow decline that had drained the house of joy. Their pain moved from one person to another as if they were passing a fragile object that belonged to all of them.

Elijah listened with stillness carved into his bones.

Inside him, the wolf lay in a silent corner. Human grief brushed its fur in faint touches. Now and then, a phrase or sob stirred it. It flicked its tail once. It turned its head. Then it closed its eyes again.

He felt the movement and ignored it.

When the meeting ended, chairs scraped across the dull floor. People murmured quiet goodbyes. Some left quickly, and others took a moment to gather themselves before walking out.

No one attempted to speak to him.

Dr. Chen met him near the door.

“You do not have to share until you are ready,” she said. “I hope you will return.”

He studied her for a second. Her posture was steady. Her gaze was patient. She did not look at him as if he were wealthy or untouchable. She simply looked at him as a man sitting inside a grief he could not speak.

“I will be here on Thursday,” he said.

He left without another word.

He did not drive home immediately. Instead, he let the car carry him through the city. The streets were quiet, the lights blurred against the glass, and every building rose like a reminder of the world he had built with fierce ambition and relentless speed.

The top floors of Lunaris Tower glowed faintly against the skyline. He parked beneath the structure and stared up at it for a long moment. Elena had helped design the earliest sketches of this building. It had been their shared vision. Now it felt like a museum.

The elevator took him to the penthouse suite. The doors opened into silence.

He walked across the marble floor to the tall windows. The city shimmered beneath him like a constellation. People lived and moved and carried their private burdens in apartments and bars and alleyways. Human lives moved forward whether they wanted to or not.

He poured whiskey into a glass and held it for several seconds before taking a sip. The warmth never reached him.

“Elena,” he said under his breath.

The wolf did not react.

The silence within him stretched wider.

He unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall to the floor. Scars lined his ribs and chest, pale against his skin. They had healed. The ones inside him remained untouched.

His reflection in the glass looked like a man in control. Strong shoulders, straight posture, and a jaw locked with discipline. It was the expression of an alpha who once commanded everything he saw.

Yet something inside him felt hollow and unbalanced. He felt like a leader without a pack. A wolf without a howl.

He pressed his hand against the cool glass.

The wolf stirred.

"You should not be here."

The words were not spoken aloud. They did not belong to a language humans understood. They rose from somewhere deeper, somewhere wild.

Elijah turned away from the window. “Too late,” he murmured.

The next morning, Lunaris Tower hummed with early activity. Assistants hurried along the halls. Executives straightened their postures when he passed. The quiet respect that followed him was familiar, yet it barely touched him.

Sylvia, his assistant, walked beside him with a tablet. “You have a meeting at two in the afternoon with the St. Catherine Foundation. It concerns the continued funding of the grief center.”

He paused in his steps. “The church.”

“Yes,” she said. “Shall I confirm?”

“Yes. I will attend.” His voice remained steady.

She hesitated. “Are you sure you want to continue these visits? Twice a week is a significant commitment.”

He did not answer her question. “Confirm it.”

“Of course.”

He said nothing more.

He spent the day in meetings and decisions, signing documents and approving projects. Everything moved like clockwork. He performed every task with precision. No one noticed the quiet strain beneath the surface.

That evening, he returned to the basement.

He sat in the same chair. The room slowly filled around him. Margaret’s sigh carried the same heavy rhythm. Sarah’s perfume drifted softly. Robert entered with steady steps.

Still, the chair beside him remained empty.

Dr. Chen began the session. “What does grief feel like today?” she asked.

The group answered one by one.

When she turned to Elijah, he lifted his eyes.

“It is quieter than it should be,” he said.

She frowned slightly. “Grief?”

“Yes.”

Someone sitting across the room sniffled.

He added, “Some days I wish it would speak.”

The room listened in silence.

What settled between them was not pity. It was not comfort.

It was recognition.