Hoshor Plains a glass of chardonnay with ghosts

They came. One by one, snowflakes converged to create a distinct outline of their faces, then they dissolved, giving place for the next. Some people Wraen recognized - her parents, old friends and acquaintances - some she had never seen in her life before. Probably distant ancestors, clinging to that lifeline, which connected them to their living offspring, freeing them from the icy cold of the Underworld. 

Wraen could not hear their voices, instead she was surrounded by harmonious humming, as if she was standing in the middle of swarm of bees. She did not flinch, when the ghosts touched her face or run their muzzles through her fur, seeking warmth, breathing in life. She shivered a little, but not because of fear. Any signs of distress and the ghosts would either flee or devour her whole. Neither were good options. 

A sharp, loud call broke through the illusion, which shattered in numerous pieces, leaving Wraen alone, amidst a snowstorm, but with a distinct feeling that someone had stayed behind. She turned to face the person, who had called, and did not recognize her niece, who she had not seen for almost two years. Maybe longer. And though such little forgetfulnesses are pretty common, this moment marked a slight change in Wraen's life. 

"May I help you?" she asked the other she-wolf, smiling at her kindly.