Page 15 of Witch's Wolf

“That shed over there,” I say, tipping my head toward it. “What do you keep in there? If you don’t mind me asking.”

She pauses, turning to look at the shed like she’s seeing it for the first time. Her brows furrow slightly, and I swear the light in her eyes dims, just for a second. Whatever’s in that shed, it’s already casting shadows.

“Actually, that shed is the main reason I rented this place,” Erica says, keys jingling like a nervous tic. Her voice carries a casual note, but there’s something brittle underneath it. “It’s full of my parents’ stuff. I didn’t have enough room to keep it in my old apartment and had to rent a storage space. Storage doesn’t come cheap in the city. That shed offset the extra expense of the house.”

Her words land heavier than she probably realizes. Parents’ stuff. A whole shed full of it, locked up and untouched. I stare at it, trying to decide if it’s a shrine or a grave.

“Have you gone through any of it?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

She steps closer, clutching the keys tighter. Her hesitation speaks louder than her answer.

“Not all of it,” she admits, her voice softer now. “I haven’t been able to… it hurts too much.” She drops her eyes to the ground. For a moment I think she’s somewhere else entirely. “When Imoved in the other day, I grabbed a couple of pictures of them and locked the shed back up. I haven’t been inside since.”

The way she says it, like it’s final, like the mere thought of opening that door could undo her, tugs at something deep in me. I know what it’s like to carry that kind of pain, to bury it so deep it feels like it’s part of your DNA.

“I’d like to take a look at it,” I say, keeping my voice light, almost casual, though my wolf stirs restlessly.

“No,” she snaps, her eyes narrowing. “Sorry, but that’s not okay. I can’t go through that stuff, Sam. It’s too painful”

“I get it,” I say holding up a hand in a peace offering. “You won’t have to. I’ll do it myself. You don’t even have to set foot inside. Let me look and if there’s anything important, I’ll let you know.”

She tenses, her shoulders hunching, and I watch the conflict on her face. She’s fighting with emotions, not because she doesn’t trust me, but because she doesn’t trust herself. The idea of someone else wading into that sea of grief she’s kept at bay must feel like a betrayal of everything she’s worked so hard to bury. She lets out a frustrated huff, tossing me the keys with more force than necessary.

“Fine,” she snaps, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Fair warning, though. There are probably cockroaches in there. I saw a huge, disgusting one the other day. Brown and shiny. Ugh.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll keep an eye out for the little bastards.”

The deflection is obvious, but I don’t call her on it. Her glare softens, but she doesn’t move, staying in her defensive stance. I turn toward the shed, the keys cold and heavy in my hand.

I feel her watching, like she’s torn between wanting me to find something and praying I don’t. The shed is a Pandora’s box of memories she’s too afraid to face. And here I am, about to open it, knowing full well that whatever I find inside might be more than either of us is ready for.

“Are you making fun of me?” she asks, her voice sharp.

“No,” I reply quickly, too quickly. “God forbid, no.”

She doesn’t say anything more as I approach the shed. She opens the front door, and it shuts softly, leaving me to my exploration.

I shouldn’t be here, invading her space like this, but curiosity gnaws at me. I can’t shake the feeling that what’s inside the shed will tell me more about Erica than she ever willingly would. Maybe more than she even knows.

She said it’s her parents’ stuff, but she’s left it untouched and forgotten. How do you forget the people who made you? I think of my parents, the ache of their loss as familiar as the steady rhythm of my heartbeat. I’ve buried my grief, but I’ve never locked it away, never pretended it didn’t exist. Erica’s choice to leave these pieces of her past sealed up, unseen and unexplored, feels alien to me. It’s as if she’s hiding something, not just from herself, but from the world.

The beige door gleams under the moonlight, incongruous against the weathered wood surrounding it. I pause, my fingers curling around the cold, metal key.

My wolf stirs restlessly. The unease I’ve been trying to ignore coils tighter in my chest. The wrongness of this place crawls over my skin with icy fingers. It feels like a predator’s den that’s been disguised as a sanctuary. I push the thought away and jam thekey into the lock. It turns with a softclick,the sound impossibly loud in the quiet.

Stepping inside, the air is stale, thick with the smell of old wood and time left standing still. I use my phone light and find a light switch next to the door. When I click it on, dust motes dance in the faint beam of light from a single bulb overhead, casting faint, shifting patterns on the walls. The interior is smaller than I imagined. There are haphazardly stacked boxes lining the walls, their edges worn but sturdy.

In the center of the room sits a wide counter like an altar to the past. Objects are arranged with a care that feels at odds with the rest of the space. A jumble of picture frames, a faded restaurant receipt, and an ancient bouquet of roses. The flowers are dry and brittle, their original color long gone, leaving only the ghost of what they once were. At the center of it all is a wooden plaque, its surface dulled with age, but the carved names still visible.

Roberta & Dennis

8-12-1991

I pick it up and blow a thin layer of dust off its surface. The craftsmanship is simple but deliberate, each groove in the wood etched with purpose. My thumb traces the letters, and for a moment, it feels like I’m holding a piece of her parents’ story, something intimate and sacred.

Putting the plaque back, I pick up the receipt. The paper is soft and delicate with age. Flipping it over, I see there is neat handwriting across the back. The words are like a whisper from the past.

Our first date at Pablo’s

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