Arlene's POV
Isabel stands on the back porch with her phone, cigarette smoke curling around her fingers. I grab two wine glasses and fill them, then step outside to join her. Something feels wrong in the air between us. I can barely process what she must be going through right now. When she glances up, her eyes are bloodshot and glassy with unshed tears. I extend the glass toward her and she accepts it with shaking hands.
Settling beside her on the porch steps, I take a careful sip of my wine. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words. I hope this small gesture might offer her some comfort.
"Everything feels different here now," she finally whispers.
"How so?" I ask gently. "This is still your home."
"I used to despise this place," she admits with a bitter smile. "Born and raised in pack life, the isolation here nearly drove me insane."
"I'm sorry to hear that." The words feel inadequate. "What's changed?"
