Maria Carvalho stood in the hallway, her hand hovering inches from Aldo's bedroom door.
For weeks, this door had remained closed—a barrier between the living and the memory of the dead. She'd walked past it countless times, her heart clenching each time she glimpsed the handle, remembering how her son used to leave it perpetually ajar, music bleeding into the hallway at all hours. Now the silence behind it was deafening.
She took a shaky breath, her fingers finally making contact with the cool metal. The door wasn't fully closed—just barely cracked open, as if inviting her in. Or perhaps warning her away.
A part of her urged her to pull it shut and continue on her way to Reina's room, to go see her living child who she'd not been paying much attention to lately.
But her feet wouldn't budge towards that direction. They instead carried her forward, pushing Aldo's door open with a soft creak that sounded like a sigh.
The morning light filtered through the thin curtains—those curtains Aldo had complained about a thousand times—casting everything in a golden, dreamlike glow. Maria's breath caught in her throat as she stepped inside, and suddenly she was drowning in him. His cologne lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable. His soccer cleats sat by the closet, still caked with dried mud from his last soccer practice. His desk was cluttered with textbooks, notebooks and stationery he had no use for anymore.
She moved deeper into the room like a woman in a trance, her fingers trailing over his things. The vintage band posters on the walls—groups she'd never heard of but pretended to like because they made him happy. The trophy from the regional soccer championship, third place, that he'd been so proud of. The stack of comic books on his nightstand that he'd sworn he was "too old for" but kept rereading anyway.
Maria picked up one of his hoodies from the desk chair, brought it to her face, and inhaled deeply. Tears prickled her eyes as his scent filled her lungs—her baby, her boy, her 'mijo'. She smiled through the pain, remembering how he used to steal this exact hoodie back from Reina at least twice a week, claiming she'd 'stretched it out' with her 'weird way of wearing it.'
Her gaze drifted to his bookshelf, and she found herself reading the spines. Fantasy novels. Graphic novels. A Portuguese-English dictionary he'd gotten for helping his abuela practice. A worn copy of 'Cem Anos de Solidão' that his literature teacher had assigned—he'd complained about it being 'too depressing' but she'd caught him reading it late at night, completely absorbed.
She moved to his desk, ran her fingers over his notebooks, then opened one to find doodles in the margins—wolves and moons and abstract patterns that probably meant something to him. His handwriting, forever frozen on these pages—forever seventeen.
A soft sound drew her attention to the bed, and her heart stuttered.
Reina lay curled on her side, swallowed by Aldo's oversized shirt and joggers, her face peaceful in sleep. Maria's hand flew to her mouth as a fresh wave of emotion crashed over her.
She moved to the bed slowly, carefully, and sank down onto that edge of the mattress. For a long moment, she simply watched her daughter sleep, studying her face in the gentle morning light.
Reina had always been beautiful—unfairly so, Maria had often thought. Even as a child, she'd turned heads everywhere they went. But as she'd grown into her teenage years, that beauty had sharpened into something almost overwhelming. Something almost frightening in her utter obliviousness to it.
Her skin was flawless with a warm ivory tone that glowed like she'd been kissed by the sun itself. She had full lips that were naturally rose-tinted even without makeup and ridiculously long eyelashes that framed the most beautiful amber eyes—a color she'd inherited from Maria's own grandmother.
Those eyes had been drawing stares since Reina was fourteen. Whenever she came around, people stared. Boys had the same stunned goofy expression, eyes wide, smile wolfish but uncomfortably older men had something more lustful. More troubling though was the way women looked at her—with unmasked envy, and in some cases naked hatred. Like Reina had cheated to win the grand prize in a genetic lottery of good looks. Teachers gave her special attention, and strangers stopped her on the street to tell her she should model.
But Reina had never seemed to notice—or perhaps she simply didn't care since she carried herself in a boyish way.
She dressed like her brother, and with mostly his stolen clothes—baggy jeans, oversized hoodies, baseball caps pulled low. She walked with a slight hunch, shoulders rolled forward as if trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable. No makeup. No jewelry except for the simple chain her father had given her for her quinceañera.
Growing up, Aldo had been her entire world. Her best friend, her partner in crime, her other half. Where Aldo went, Reina followed. What Aldo liked, Reina learned to like. How Aldo dressed, she mimicked. They'd been inseparable since birth—twin souls if not twin wolves.
Because that had been the cruel twist of fate, hadn't it?
Maria was human—born and raised in a small town in Oaxaca, Mexico, with no knowledge of the supernatural world until she'd fallen in love with Gabriel Carvalho during a summer trip to São Paulo. Gabriel had been upfront about what he was, what his family was, giving her the choice to walk away before things got complicated.
She'd stayed. She'd married him and built a life in Brazil, learning Portuguese, adapting to his culture, and accepting his wolf.
When the twins were born, they'd hoped—prayed—that both children would inherit Gabriel's wolf. His wolf Pack, The Brasa Pack had been excited, anticipating two new pups to strengthen their numbers but only Aldo had shifted on his thirteenth birthday.
Reina remained human, like her mother.
Maria had watched her daughter's face that night, searching for disappointment, for jealousy, for resentment. But Reina had only hugged her brother, told him how cool it was, and asked a million questions about what it felt like. If it bothered her that she couldn't follow Aldo into that part of his life, she never showed it.
But Aldo... Aldo had struggled. The wolf had felt wrong to him, foreign, like a coat that didn't fit properly, or an intruder. He'd hated the pack gatherings, the training sessions, the expectations. He'd wanted to be normal, to be like his mother and sister. The Brasa Pack—whose name meant ember, meant slow-burning fire that never quite went out—had tried to be patient with him. But his distance had strained relationships.
Gabriel had understood, at least. As an Omega—the weakest rank in the pack hierarchy—he knew what it felt like to not quite fit the mold. What he lacked in physical strength though, he made up for in wisdom and patience. Over the years, he'd become one of the most respected elders in the Brasa Pack, sought out for counsel and mediation. His advice had prevented more conflicts than anyone could count.
But he hadn't been able to help his own son accept his wolf.
And now...
Maria's throat tightened, tears blurring her vision. Now Aldo was gone, and all those struggles seemed so pointless, so small compared to the gaping hole he'd left behind.
Reina stirred, and her eyelashes fluttered. Those amber eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they found her mother's face.
"Mamá?" Her voice was rough with sleep.
"Mi amor," Maria whispered, unable to stop herself from reaching out to brush a strand of hair from Reina's face.
Reina sat up quickly, and threw her arms around her mother, pulling her into a fierce hug. Maria held her just as tightly, breathing in the scent of Aldo's clothes mixed with her daughter's own familiar smell—vanilla and something earthy, grounding.
"I'm happy to see you here," Reina murmured against her shoulder. "In his room. I was worried you'd never..."
"I know, mija. I know." Maria pulled back slightly, cupping Reina's face in her hands. She studied her daughter's features carefully—looking for signs of.... what? Grief? Anger? The potion had done its work; there wasn't a mark on her face, no evidence of whatever she'd been through last night.
"I'm glad you're finally in here too," Reina said softly. "It still smells like him."
"It does," Maria agreed, her smile trembling. "Like that terrible cologne and clean laundry."
They shared a watery laugh, the sound fragile but real.
"Mija, I needed to wake you for a reason," Maria said, her expression growing serious. "Your father and I—we've been summoned to a pack council meeting. About Aldo."
Reina's eyes widened. "What? When?"
"This morning. They want to discuss...Aldo. Finally." Maria's voice carried equal parts hope and skepticism.
'Beta Oliveira', Reina thought immediately. Her heart squeezed as she wondered if the meeting was just to discuss Aldo or what she'd done. . .or both. She was just as human as Ruiz, but she wondered if she could be accused of attempting to break the treaty—a very serious offense in São Paulo. Franco's confession was his only evidence though, so exposing her would mean exposing his son, which she doubted he would do. But with the Beta one would never know.
"Is this just about Aldo or… also about me?" Reina asked carefully.
"This has nothing to do with you," Maria frowned. "Why would you think that?"
"Nothing, I was just wondering. . .I spoke to Franco recently, and he said he would speak with his dad. Perhaps he did?"
"Perhaps." Maria stood, smoothing down her clothes. "Whatever it is, your father thinks it's a positive sign. Anyway, I'd like us to have breakfast together this morning. You know it's been a while since—"
The shrill ring of the house phone cut through the conversation. They both froze, then Reina scrambled out of bed, padding quickly down the hall to the kitchen where the landline hung on the wall.
"Hello?"
"Ray!" Her best friend Camilla's voice burst through the speaker, bright and energetic despite the early hour. "I'm coming over. Like now. I'm already in my car."
"Cami, it's barely—"
"I don't care what time it is. I haven't seen you in forever, and I'm not taking no for an answer. Be there in fifteen!" The line went dead.
Reina stared at the phone for a moment, then hung it up with a small smile. Camila had been giving her space since the funeral, but apparently, her patience had run out.
"Who was that?" Maria asked, emerging from Aldo's room.
"Camila. She's coming over."
"Oh, good! I'm glad. You need your friends right now." Maria moved into the kitchen, already pulling out pans for breakfast. "Why don't you go tell your father and Nona? They're in the study."
Reina found them exactly where her mother said—her father hunched over papers at his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose, while her grandmother sat in the armchair by the window, rosary beads clicking softly through her fingers.
"Papá," Reina said softly.
Gabriel Carvalho looked up, and his entire face softened. At forty-five, he was still handsome—salt-and-pepper hair, kind eyes, a gentle strength and quiet dignity in his features.
"Filha," he opened his arms, and Reina crossed the room to hug him.
"Mamá said you have a council meeting," she murmured against his shoulder.
"We do." He pulled back, studying her face with those perceptive eyes that seemed to see everything. "The pack wants to discuss what happened to your brother. Finally."
"Do you think they'll actually help?"
Gabriel's jaw tightened. "I think they'll listen. What they do with that information..." He shrugged. "We'll see. But your mother and I will make sure they understand what's at stake."
"I believe in you, Papá." Reina squeezed his hand. "Camila's coming over, by the way."
"Good, good. You need your friends." He kissed her forehead. "We won't be long."
Reina crossed to her grandmother next, pressing a kiss to her weathered cheek. "Bom dia, Nona."
"Bom dia, minha neta," the old woman murmured, catching Reina's hand and squeezing it with surprising strength. Her eyes, clouded with age but still sharp, searched Reina's face. "You look tired, menina."
"I didn't sleep well," Reina admitted—not quite a lie.
Her grandmother hummed knowingly but didn't press.
Soon, the smell of coffee and eggs drew them all back to the kitchen, where Maria was already plating breakfast. The four of them gathered around the table, ignoring a conspicuously empty seat with great effort.
And because they hadn't gathered like this to eat since Aldo died, no one brought it up until Gabriel cleared his throat. "Maria and I should leave soon. The council meets at eight."
"You'll do wonderfully," Nona said firmly, pointing her fork at him. "You tell them our boy deserves justice. You tell them—"
"We will, Mamá," Maria said gently, covering her mother-in-law's hand with her own.
Reina stood, moving to her father's side. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek against his shoulder. "I know you'll make them listen, Papá. You always know the right thing to say..." then she added, more to herself. "If everything works out then I don't have to..."
"You don't have to what?" Gabriel stirred and then turned around so he could see his daughter's face.
"Err... To worry so much about this," Reina cleared her throat and avoided her father's keen gaze as she added, "I won't feel so sad if Aldo gets justice."
Maria rose too, coming around the table. "He will, baby. Don't worry yourself about all this, but leave it to the adults, okay?"
"Okay." Reina gave a nod and a watery smile.
"Group hug?" Maria declared, her voice wobbling slightly. "Everyone, now."
Reina stepped into her mother's embrace, just her father stood to wrap his long arms around the both of them.
"I'm not missing this," Nona announced, pushing herself up with her cane and shuffling over. The three of them made room, drawing the elderly woman into their circle.
For a moment, they stood there—four people bound by love and loss, holding each other up in the early morning light of the kitchen. The same kitchen where Aldo had burned toast at least twice a week. Where he'd done homework at this table, complained about teachers, stolen cookies from the jar on the counter.
And then—impossibly, miraculously—Nona started to chuckle.
"What?" Maria asked, pulling back to look at her mother-in-law.
"I was just thinking," Nona said, her eyes twinkling despite the tears gathered there, "that the last time we gathered to hug like this, Aldo tried to make me that birthday cake that almost burned down the kitchen. Remember?"
Gabriel laughed, the sound rusty but genuine. "To worsen matters, he'd used salt instead of sugar."
"And didn't realize until I took a bite," Nona cackled, the memory clearly precious despite—or perhaps because of—the disaster it had been.
"He felt so bad," Maria added, starting to laugh too. "He cried harder than you did, Mamá."
"My sweet boy," Nona whispered, and then she was laughing and crying at the same time, and so was Maria, and then Gabriel, and finally Reina.
Laughter filled the Carvalho home for the first time since Aldo's death, and Reina couldn't help but think that if Ruiz hadn't let her go, she wouldn't have been present to witness it. It was the sound of a family learning how to carry joy and grief in the same breath, how to honor the dead while still living.
It didn't erase the pain, nor did it bring Aldo back. But for just a moment, in that kitchen filled with morning light and the ghost of a burnt birthday cake, they remembered how to be a family again.