The Quiet Daughter Couldn’t Wait
My younger sister’s wolf was unstable from birth.
The pack healers called it frenzy sickness. Loud noises, blood scent, anger, fear, even a sudden shock could push her into a violent episode.
So my whole life was put on silent mode.
I could not laugh too loud. I could not cry where she could smell it. I could not even scream when I was hurt, because pain had a scent, too.
My parents always held me with guilty eyes.
“Nova, your sister’s wolf needs the whole family to stay calm. You are strong. You are steady. You can handle more than she can. Just this once, okay?”
But “just this once” became my entire life.
That day, I accidentally knocked over a tray of metal parts in my father’s forge. The crash echoed through the house.
Iris screamed at once. Her eyes flashed red, and her claws tore through her palms.
Father shoved me aside and rushed over to protect her;
I hit the edge of the forge table so hard that something cracked deep beneath my ribs.
There was no blood on my clothes. No wound they could see.
I curled up on the cold floor and whispered, “Mom, it hurts.”
My mother looked at me.
For one second, I thought she would come.
Then Iris screamed louder.
Everyone ran to my sister.
They thought the quiet daughter could wait.
They did not know my broken rib had torn through my liver.
They did not know I was bleeding where no one could see.
By the time they finally remembered me, I had already died alone on the floor.