The Sentinels shatter me

Perhaps she was a wraith, and this was her afterlife. One without her mother or father, without Tachyon, without all the pleasures of friendship and family she had come to cherish. It was not a good afterlife; she haunted these woods as a wraith would, flitting from tree to tree, without speaking much to anybody. But Eilidh knew she was no wraith; the dull hunger in her belly told her as much. But her soul had faded, slipped into a dark corner of herself, while grief strangled her from within.

A voice called her name, and she turned to look through the mist, toward her father. She blinked. No, not Lasher, but his son Constantine. Her brother. A bare twitch of her ears told of her recognition, and she plodded toward him. Brother, she whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse. She stepped into him, pressing her slim chest against his, burying her nose into his fur. She inhaled deeply, remembering the world that awaited her outside of her grief. As she stepped back, the moment of clarity fled, and the fogginess of these past weeks settled over her again.