Moonlight

The full moon had been climbing all evening, pale and perfect, until it finally settled in the square of the cabin window. It painted the wooden walls in silver, the kind of light that doesn't just shine—it lingers, seeps into the grain, into your skin.

"It's time," I told him. My voice sounded small in the wide quiet of our little cabin. "Will you be all right, Father?"

He smiled in that way he does when he's trying to make me believe something he isn't quite sure of himself. The firelight caught the ginger in his beard, turned it to copper. "You know how it is, lad. Every moon's different. Some are easy. Some… aren't. But I'll be fine."

I nodded, though my stomach had already begun its slow, familiar twist. His eyes flicked to the old revolver on the mantelpiece—the one with the triskele carved into its side—and back to me. We never talked about it, not really. It was just there, like the moon, like the change.

"Best get to bed," he said, and I obeyed, padding down the hallway past the framed photographs. Us in the clearing last winter, snow in his fur. Me as a baby chewing on his ear whilst the rest of the pack lounged in the background. I remembered the warmth of those bodies, the way the forest smelt like safety. I still dreamt about it sometimes.

My room was just as I'd left it: dragons in crayon on the walls, a pile of books leaning dangerously on the bedside table, quilt folded back in welcome. He came in a moment later, his nails already black and curved, his ears tapering to points. His smile had shifted with the rest of him—narrower now, edged with teeth—but it was still his.

"You comfortable, my brave boy?" he asked, the growl in his words almost tender.

"Yes. You'll be okay, won't you?"

"Of course," he said, too quickly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Does it hurt?"

His jaw flexed. "Yeah. More than I'd like you to know. But I can take it." He grinned wide, as though a bigger smile might make the truth smaller.

I laughed when he tickled me, the sound breaking through the hush. I reached up and touched the bridge of his changing snout, and he gave me a soft huff in return.

"I love you, Father."

He bent and pressed his muzzle to my cheek, the fur warm against my skin. His tail swayed once, twice, before he backed out of the room, clothes in rags on the floor. The door stayed ajar, and through it I heard the steady click of claws on the hallway boards—the sound I'd grown up with, the sound that meant home.

I closed my eyes, wrapped in quilt and moonlight, knowing he'd still be there. Not the same as before, not exactly, but still him. Always him.