“That’s your voice, isn’t it, Mr. Morgan?” the chief asked quietly.
My father’s mind seemed to go blank. After several seconds, he staggered toward the door, heading for the fire house.
“No, no, it can’t be. It’s not possible,” he muttered as he stumbled forward.
My father moved with unexpected speed, outpacing even the trained enforcers who followed him.
He rushed to the fire house, his steps slowing as he approached the heavy door. His hand trembled as he reached for the handle.
Suddenly, he flung the door open.
My body was revealed once more.
More than a month had passed since my death. My corpse had decomposed significantly, nearly two–thirds gone. The head had deteriorated fastest, exposing the skull beneath. My face was no longer recognizable.
My father finally began to understand that this charred, rotting corpse was indeed his daughter.
He reached out to touch me, but his fingers met only decaying flesh.
Still in denial, he grabbed what remained of my clothing and tried to pull me out of the fire house. My body broke apart at his
touch.
Even in death, I couldn’t rest in peace.
“No, this can’t be real. It’s fake, all fake. This isn’t my daughter. It can’t be,” he babbled, his voice rising in panic.
The chief enforcer arrived to witness the horrific scene–a shapeless mass of decayed remains on the ground, with my father cradling rotting flesh in his hands.
“Stop! Don’t move!” the chief shouted, immediately ordering his team to contact the pack’s medical examiner.
The younger enforcers recoiled at the sight and smell, some turning away to retch. Even the most hardened among them had never seen such a gruesome scene.
“Seal off the area! This is now a murder investigation!” the chief barked, his face pale but determined.
My father didn’t seem to hear them. He continued whispering to himself, rocking back and forth with pieces of me still in his hands. Tears streamed down his face, cutting clean tracks through the grime and blood.
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