It would not remain a cub forever.
The older woman reminded her of that often.
Spring would come.
The animal would grow.
Eventually kindness would mean letting it return to the life it had been born for rather than keeping it close simply because she loved it.
Sylvie understood that better now.
Love was not ownership.
Protection was not control.
And a person who truly cared whether you lived did not leave you hanging from a tree to prove a point.
Before sunset, Sylvie wrapped the cedar board in cloth.
She did not destroy the hateful words on one side.
She no longer needed to pretend they had never existed.
But when she stored the board away, she placed Joseph’s carving face down.
The older message remained facing upward.
SYLVIE.
DRY CREEK.
SUNDOWN.
I’LL WAIT.
For nearly a year, she had thought those words had never been sent.
Her father had stolen the message, but he had failed to erase the truth behind it.
Outside, the last snow slipped from the cottonwoods.
The bear cub bounded after a patch of moving light.
And Sylvie stepped into the thaw carrying nothing around her wrists.
