From the moment I was born, I didn’t cry or make a sound.
Because this was my second time living.
I thought I was strange enough, but my twin sister, Alayah, was even stranger.
“We’re not real sisters,” she said, her voice soft but firm.
I froze, unsure how a one-year-old werewolf pup was supposed to react.
She continued, “Since I’ve taken your sister’s place, I’ll take care of you.”
My heart slowly settled back into place.
So that’s what she meant.
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I often wondered if she could see things I couldn’t.
When we were alone in our shared room, she would sometimes stare into the air, her tiny fists clenched, her eyes wild with excitement.
“A huge bowl of spaghetti, I’m going to devour it,” she’d mutter.
“Oh, and a milkshake with whipped cream, I’ll slurp it all down.
“Wow, a juicy steak, burgers, fries, nachos, and a chocolate cake—come on, all of you, get in my mouth!”
At times like these, I’d instinctively scoot farther away.
Just in case she decided to eat me too.
