Page 125 of Echoes From the Void
Some families remake reality itself.
Forever.
As we were always meant to be.
Together.
Not just surviving.
Not just enduring.
But living.
Loving.
Choosing.
Being exactly who we were meant to become.
Home.
Epilogue
Helena
“And that’show love saved everything,” I close the worn leather journal that’s become their favorite bedtime story, my fingers tracing the faded cover. “Through choice and family and believing in better ways.”
“Tell it again, Mom,” Frankie demands, her violet eyes bright as she bounces on her bed. Her dark curls tumble wild around her face, refusing to stay in their braids. Her twin brother Finn rolls his eyes but can’t hide his hopeful expression, white-blonde hair falling into eyes that match his sister’s perfectly. At five years old, they’re mirror images of each other, even down to the way they scrunch their noses when they’re trying not to smile.
“Tomorrow night,” I promise, tucking blankets around them both. Frankie’s stuffed wolf and Finn’s fox peek out from beneath the covers, well-loved from countless retellings. “It’s already way past bedtime.”
“But what happened next?” Finn asks, clutching his fox closer. “After they saved the shadow realm? Did Finn and Tori get married? Did the pack?—”
“That’s the wonderful thing about stories,” I tell him, smoothing his pale hair that never seems to darken no matterhow much time he spends in the sun. “They keep going in our imagination.”
“Did you make it all up?” Frankie’s eyes are serious in the soft glow of her nightlight, reminding me so much of another pair of violet eyes I once knew. “About Frankie and the wolves and everything?”
I pause at their bedroom door, looking at my twins—so much like the characters they’ve grown to love. Their walls are covered with their own interpretations of the story: Frankie’s fierce wolves drawn in bold crayon strokes, Finn’s delicate foxes rendered in careful colored pencil. Even their art styles mirror their personalities.
“Some stories are magic because they feel real,” I say finally, choosing my words carefully. “Because they remind us that love and family can transform anything.”
“Even evil shadow monsters?” Finn asks through a yawn, snuggling deeper into his blankets. His fox tucked securely under his chin.
“Especially those,” I smile, watching Frankie’s eyes grow heavy despite her determination to stay awake. “Now sleep. Dream of wolves and foxes and chosen family.”
I turn out the light, leaving just their nightlights glowing—one casting wolf-shaped shadows on the wall, the other creating patterns that look almost like starlight. From their shelves, scattered drawings show their versions of all the characters—Frankie with her wolves, Finn’s light foxes, the pack in all their various forms. A child’s imagination making magic real.
“Mom?” Frankie calls as I start to close the door, her voice already thick with sleep.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I love you. Like Frankie loved her pack.”
“Like family,” Finn mumbles, barely awake.
“Like family,” I agree softly. “Now and always.”
I close their door gently, holding the old journal close. The leather is worn soft from countless readings, its pages filled with a familiar hand that makes my heart ache with memory. Just a story. Just words on paper that have helped my children understand love and sacrifice and family.
