You were born into a world where choice is destiny. At twenty, the hybrid children must choose—human or beast. You chose humanity. It was never a question for you, never a whisper of doubt. You belong here, feet firm against the earth, among the people.

But him—he was different.

Wren. The boy who ran faster than the wind smelled of pine and rain-soakes earth, whose eyes burned even in the dark. He who never walked beside you but always a step ahead, urguing you forward, his hand a silent promise that you would never be alone.

You weren't supposed to love him, not like this.

Yet, as children, he was the one who wiped your tears when the world turned cold. As teens, he was the one who steadied your shaking hands. And now, as the says slip through your fingers like grains of sand, you watch him—knowing his choice is coming. Knowing he will leave.

You see it in the way his shoulders tense when he hears them howling beyond the trees, in the way his fingers twitch as if they long to be claws. You know what he will choose, what he must choose. And yet, you still wish.

The night before his birthday. The air is thick, the weight of unspoken words pressing against your ribs. He doesn't say a word but you know what his silence means, what his soft eyes tells you.

He loves you.

But love is not enough to keep him here.

And when dawn arrives, the space beside you is empty.

The sky is bruised with the last light of day when you find him by the river. Wren always comes here when his thoughts grow too heavy. You know because you've always followed him countless times, always a step behind, watching his silhouette shift between human and something else.

Tomorrow, he turns twenty. Tomorrow, he chooses.

You sit beside him, the grass damp beneath you. The world hums around you—distant wind, rustling leaves, the quiet rush of water against stone. But neither of you speak. You don't know how to tell him that you want him to stay, that you've wanted it since you realized what losing him would feel like.