SONGS FOR WHEN THE BEASTS SLEEP _____________________________________ she writes lullabies for creatures with teeth. i. they came at dusk, always. slow-footed, shadow-slick, too large to fit through the door but never trying. she sat by the fire, wrapped her hands around a chipped teacup, and began. her songs had no words—just sounds, old as moss, worn smooth by use. the creatures listened with their heads tilted, teeth glinting in the dim like polished bone. they never blinked. she never looked away. if you watched long enough, you might have thought it was love. it wasn’t. but it was something close. ii. no one had taught her how to sing to monsters. it was something her body remembered—like knowing which mushrooms not to eat, or how to lie still when the wolves drew near. sometimes she hummed as she mended their old wounds, their cracked claws, their splitting skin. sometimes they let her. other times, they flinched. one had brought her a feather once, thick and black, plucked from somewhere deeper than sky. she had tucked it into her pocket. they had watched. they hadn’t asked for it back. iii. the last night was unusually still. no snarling. no restless claws. just breath, thick and warm, fogging the windows. she began the song anyway, her voice threadbare but gentle. the creatures were already circling—slower than usual. quieter. like they didn’t want to wake her fear too early. halfway through, her voice gave out. not a scream. just a hush. the kind that felt too final. they waited for the rest, blinking slowly, as if hoping it would return. it didn’t. and when they moved, it wasn’t with rage. it wasn’t even hunger. it was instinct. inevitable. her lullaby still hummed in their mouths as they opened them.
