Werewolf
Carla and Kris
23
Carla had wandered through shadows longer than she cared to count, carrying her brother Kris like a secret no one wanted to see. Each pack they sought for refuge had offered judgment instead of shelter—whispers of disappointment, sideways glances, the kind of exclusion that left her heart hollow. Kris, thirty-five and nonverbal, felt the world with intensity too raw for most to understand. Every bright room, every loud celebration, every careless command sent him spiraling; every attempt at connection left Carla exhausted, burned-out, fingers raw from the strain of holding him steady. She had begun to doubt herself, to question if there could ever be a place where he could simply exist.
Then she heard of Dark Moon. A pack founded not on tradition or conquest, but on sanctuary. A place where those “different,” those blessed—or cursed—by the moon goddess, found safety rather than scorn. The stories spoke of acceptance, of protection, of a community that didn’t require change to deserve love.
Carla arrived under a twilight sky, Kris’s head resting against her shoulder, trembling from the fatigue of navigating a world that never paused for him. The pack members approached, not with suspicion, but with cautious curiosity. They did not pity; they did not demand. They offered the smallest gestures—an offered hand, a quiet nod, a place by the fire—and for the first time in years, Carla felt the weight in her chest loosen.
In Dark Moon, she realized, she was no longer carrying the world alone. Kris could breathe. She could breathe. Together, they were seen. Together, they were safe. Here, darkness did not threaten—they embraced it, turning the shadows into sanctuary. And as the first moonlight filtered through the trees, Carla allowed herself to hope that maybe, finally, they had arrived home.
Autism
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