His Knees, His Pleas, But Our Son's in Peace

I quickly fell into the rhythm of the kindergarten. My days were filled with coloring sessions, storytime, and the inevitable chaos of managing a room full of excitable children. But it wasn't just the work that changed me-it was the connection. The children, in their pure joy and curiosity, were helping me heal. As the children tugged at my hands, asking me to play, I realized that in helping them grow, they were helping me rebuild. Little by little, their laughter became a balm to the wounds I had carried for so long.

The d

at the kindergarten had become a comforting routine for me. The children's laughter, their bright eyes, and the way their tiny wolf tails wagged excitedly behind them filled the air with innocence.

It was soothing, almost healing. Each day, I felt the burden of my past lighten, even if just a little. Working there gave me a sense of purpose that I hadn't felt in a long time.

But there was one problem-Issca. He had always been a loyal friend, someone who stuck around no matter what. Lately, though, his frequent visits to the kindergarten were beginning to cause issues. A couple of times, his visits had coincided with Carlos being nearby, and each time, I could sense Carlos's growing displeasure.

One afternoon, while I was helping the children with their painting projects, Issca waltzed into the room with his usual carefree grin. He had that easy charm that made people gravitate toward him, and the kids adored him. They rushed over to show him their artwork, giggling and chattering in excitement.

"Hey, Doris! Thought I'd drop by and see how you're doing," Issca said, giving me a wink.

I tried to smile back, but my heart sank as noticed Carlos standing at the far end

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of the hallway. His posture was stiff, his arms crossed, and his face as cold as ice.

He didn't say a word, but the disapproval in his eyes was unmistakable. Carlos had

never been the type to express his emotions openly, but over time, I'd learned to read his silent cues. This one was clear: he didn't like Issca's presence here.

Issca, oblivious to the tension, continued to chat with the kids, laughing and encouraging them as they showed off their paintings. I could feel Carlos's gaze on me the entire time, sharp and judging. I wanted to wave or at least acknowledge him, but Carlos had already turned on his heel and walked away, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence in his wake.

Issca had been visiting more frequently in the past few weeks, and each time, Carlos's reaction had been the same-cold and distant. It wasn't just that he ignored Issca; he had started ignoring me too, as if Issca's presence had tainted my work somehow. us together, he refused to even look in my

Whenever Carlos saw direction. I could feel the strain building, but I wasn't sure how to address it.

"Issca," I said quietly, pulling him aside as the children continued their painting. "We've talked about this. You can't keep dropping by like this."

He raised an eyebrow, the smile fading slightly. "What? Am I causing trouble?"

I sighed, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "It's not about you causing trouble, but this is my workplace. Carlos... he doesn't like it when non-staff visit during working hours. It's starting to create problems for me." Issca's carefree expression faltered. He glanced toward the hallway where Carlos had disappeared, clearly surprised. "I didn't realize it was an issue. I just thought I'd brighten up your day."

As he left, I watched him go, a pang of guilt twisting in my chest. Issca had been a steady presence in my life for so long, and now I was pushing him away. But I couldn't let his visits jeopardize my work-or whatever fragile connection I had been building with Carlos, as distant as it seemed.

Later that afternoon, I sat with a few coworkers during our usual tea break. The

warmth of the tea in my hands soothed me, and for a moment, I let the events of the day slip away. The conversations around me were light, filled with laughter and idle gossip, until something caught my attention.

"Did you hear about the new child coming next week?" one of my coworkers asked, her voice tinged with concern.

I leaned in slightly, curious. "No, I haven't. What's the story?"

The woman lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret. "The child's older brother passed away recently. He was part of the werewolf immunization trials. Apparently, he had some rare complications, and... well, he didn't make it." My heart clenched at the mention of the trials. I knew how dangerous they could be, but hearing about a child losing their life because of it brought the reality crashing down. "That's awful. How's the family handling it?"

"The parents have volunteered to be the first participants in the next phase of the program," she continued. "They're going through a really difficult time, but they still believe in the work. It's just... I can't imagine how hard it must be for the child to come here after losing their sibling."

I fell silent, lost in thought. The weight of their loss hit me deeply, stirring memories I'd tried to bury. I knew too well the kind of pain that lingered after losing someone close, and the idea of this child coming into such a difficult environment tugged at my heart. Maybe, in some small way, I could help. Perhaps. I could be there for the child, offer them a sense of comfort amidst the chaos.