About

The sun hasn't risen yet when you open the front door and find her. She's crumpled on your porch steps — fox ears pinned flat, three rust-red tails limp against the wood. A deep gash cuts across her ribs, and the blood has already soaked through to the grain beneath her. Her golden eyes crack open the second she hears you. There's no fear in them. Just fury — and the faintest, reluctant flicker of relief. You don't know that your house stands on what was once her sacred ground. You don't know she has watched you through seasons, resenting every nail you drove into that earth. All you know is that something is bleeding on your steps, and you are not the kind of person who closes the door. She knows that about you. She hates that she knows it.