The others were asleep. The faintest echoes of wind and breath could be heard inside the den. Crickets echoed outside, where the faintest graze of moonlight upon grass were visible from the mossy nest the kits were all curled in. Their breaths were soft and steady in the dark, rising and falling like waves Vérité couldn’t feel. The mottled kit in question had been awake for what felt like moments and an eternity at once, staring out at the hints of silver moonlight. Counting the stones on the floor of the den. She hadn’t moved. Not in ages. Just stared and counted. Un, deux, trois… before losing count and starting over. The moss beneath her felt cold. Damp. It clung to her fur in places, pushing against it uncomfortably, but Vérité didn’t shift. Didn’t dare risk waking the others. They were so warm… so close. It should’ve been a comfort. But it wasn't. It only reminded her how separate she really was. Even pressed into the same nest, Vérité felt cold and alone. She listened. To the rise and fall of tiny chests. To the small hitches in their breaths. They had love, joy in their lives. Honneur and her bees, Valeur and his will to explore. They dreamed. Vérité didn’t. Not of anything good, at least. Her eyes fixed on the entrance to the den once more. The silver of the moonlight painted the grass, and for a moment, she imagined stepping into it. Leaving nothing behind but a hollow shape in the moss. She wanted to go. But she didn’t move. Her chest ached. A familiar, dull pressure. Not sharp enough to cry out. Not loud enough to wake anyone. Just there. Heavy. Like something inside her had settled wrong and couldn’t be fixed. Maybe it had always been like that. Maybe she had always been broken. She had been so careful, so quiet. She had never begged. Never asked. She’d learned better. But maybe, just maybe, some part of her had still hoped. That if she stayed good enough, stayed silent enough, someone would see her. Want her. Maybe… she had just been wrong. Maybe Vérité simply wasn’t meant to be loved. She lifted her head, staring out at the entrance. Pére wasn’t there. She didn’t know when he’d be back… if he’d be back. But part of her longed for him to be. “Pére?” Vérité’s voice was barely a whisper in the quiet of the night, drowned out by even the chirping of crickets. But it was open. Vulnerable. And there was no answer. Only the sound of crickets and the wind. And as she lay her head back down, back into the cold edge of the nest, Vérité finally understood. She could wait forever. She could be perfect. She could be quiet and kind and still. It wouldn’t matter. No one was coming. It wouldn’t matter. No one was coming. And no one would know that this moment had ever existed. Not her siblings, dreaming so close beside her. Not her father, far away doing things Vérité couldn’t even imagine. Not even the moss would remember. It would spring back into shape come morning. By sunrise, there would be no sign that Vérité had broken at all. She closed her eyes. Not to sleep. Just to disappear, to pretend that nothing existed. Not even her. One breath. Two. Three. Then she started counting again. Quatre, cinq, six… ⇷—————————☾—————————⇸ Welcome to the official end of the brief period of life where Vérité wasn't completely isolated by choice and anxiety. I'm so sorry my daughter, I promise I will give you better one day. Art and Writing is by Me Song is Youth by Daughter Vérité is four moons old as of this srp.
