A Night

A Night
“Morning, Tilly!” Gregor called from behind the counter as I walked in. He was dusted in flour and already three pastries deep into a display tray.
“Morning,” I said, tying my apron and heading straight to the back kitchen. “Busy yet?”
“Busier than yesterday. Someone apparently blogged about us again.”
“Lovely,” I muttered, but I was smiling. It was good for business. Even if it meant no rest until sundown.
I rolled up my sleeves, washed my hands, and set to work. There was something comforting about the rhythm of it—the measuring, the kneading, the slow magic of baking. I lost myself in it until the morning blurred into afternoon.
By the time I stepped out into the evening air again, my arms were dusted with flour, and my hair had come loose from the bun. I didn’t mind the exhaustion. There was something satisfying about feeling useful without it bleeding me dry.
I picked up El from the school gate. She waved as soon as she spotted the car, hopping in and kicking off her shoes before the door even closed.
“How was school?” I asked.
“Fine. Boring. Mrs. Calloway gave us this impossible prompt about 'emotional realism' in art. Whatever that means.”
“Sounds like a fancy way of saying ‘draw your feelings.’”
She sighed dramatically. “That’s what I said.”
We got home just as the last of the sunlight was bleeding out behind the trees. I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door and took off my shoes while El disappeared up the stairs.
“I’ll start dinner soon!” I called after her.
“Okay!” came her muffled reply, already halfway to the attic.
I changed into my robe and stepped out into the backyard. The grass was soft beneath my feet, still damp from last night’s rain. I walked past the herb patch, past the small wooden bench El and I built together one summer, and stopped near the edge of the trees. The sky had gone quiet above me—just a sliver of gold remaining on the horizon, like the last sigh of the day.
Then I let the robe slip from my shoulders.
Shifting never lost its intimacy. Even after all these years, it was still a quiet, personal ritual—one that reminded me of who I was beneath the skin and bones of this life I’d built. But, unlike those born into it, the transformation didn’t come naturally. It came with struggle. With pain. And at first, fear.
The second time I shifted, I thought my body would tear apart. I remembered the scream lodged in my throat that wouldn’t come out, the fire beneath my skin, the white-hot fracture of every bone reshaping against its will. After that night, it took me months before I could do it again. And even then, only in pieces. Fingers. A rib. Once, just my eyes. Tala was buried deep beneath the human framework.
It took training. Hours of meditation. Of grounding myself. I had to meet her halfway, that ancient, wild part of me. Some days, I’d sit in the woods until dusk, trembling and stuck between forms, too exhausted to finish the shift but too stubborn to quit.
But the pain faded. Slowly. Less bone-shattering and more like a deep stretch after a long sleep. The more I leaned into it—into her—the easier it became. And over time, I didn’t need hours. I didn’t need silence or ritual or even focus. Just intent. Just a breath.
Now, the shift came with a deep pull, a roll through my spine, and a stretch of muscle and fur. And then Tala was free.
In the beginning, there was always a struggle—a blur, a blackout, a sense that I vanished whenever she surfaced, like handing over the wheel to someone. But now, we moved as one. I was still there when she ran, still thinking, still feeling. Tala wasn’t a separate being housed in my body—she was me, just wilder, sharper, and more instinctual. And I trusted her, and she trusted me, and in doing so, we became a single voice.
I ran through trees, over roots slick with moss, chasing the scent of the rain that had already passed. Instinct guided me until the trees broke open and the lake emerged. The water shimmered beneath the dying light, still and waiting.
I padded in, the coolness biting at first before settling into something comforting. I pawed at the surface like a cub and watched the ripples swell and stretch outward. I stayed there for a long time. Long enough for the wind to still and the stars to claim the sky.
And when the silence had done its job, I turned back toward home.
Near the trees, I shifted again. It was seamless now. Just a thought, a breath, and I was back in my skin.
I pulled on my robe, tying it loosely at the waist, and stepped through the back door. The warmth of the house greeted me instantly. Lights on. El’s footsteps were moving softly above me.
In my room, I changed into fresh clothes and was tying my hair back when there was a soft knock on the door.
“Mom?”
“Come in.”
El stepped inside, her fingers curled around something small. There was a faint gleam of gold peeking between them.
“I found this in one of the boxes upstairs,” she said, walking toward me. “I think it’s a bracelet?”
I didn’t move at first. Just stood there, staring at her hand as if it held a ghost.
She held it out. And there it was.
The gold was dulled, the edges worn smooth by time, but it was unmistakable. That curve. The subtle etchings I knew by memory, not sight. My fingers hovered above it, but I didn’t take it right away. The moment felt too sacred for immediacy.
“It’s… pretty,” El said, eyes flicking to my face. “Is this yours?”
I nodded slowly. My voice had vanished. “Yeah. A long time ago.”
I forced a smile and reached up to tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, brushing my thumb gently along her temple. “Thank you for finding it. I’ll start dinner soon, okay?”
“Okay.” She lingered for a second longer, sensing something unspoken in the air, but didn’t push. She slipped out and pulled the door quietly shut behind her.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. The bracelet lay in my palm like a relic. I turned it over, brushing the pad of my thumb against the familiar markings. It was more than jewelry. It was memory made tangible. The last thing of his I ever touched. I thought I’d lost it for good. Maybe I had, and it found its way back only when it knew I was ready to carry it again.
I pressed it to my chest.
A breath caught, shallow and uncertain. Then I slid the bracelet onto my wrist.
It still fit like it always had.