Sunset Valley darling don't you weep

she hears him. she always does.
not another moment passes until she is suddenly gathering him in her arms—not with words, not with judgment, but love. pure, true, and raw.
one limb hooks around his backside, the other at the back of his head, pressing him close, anchoring him. her nose finds the thick of his scruff and she inhales.
he is as soft and warm and perfect as the day she'd lost him.
the matriarch had searched for him in the wind, in the cries of birds overhead, in the faintest sound of snow breaking underfoot. and when the days stretched into seasons, she told herself it was foolish to hope. that he was lost.
or worse—that he had left because he could not stand her.
she didn't want to cry. she didn't want to fall apart in front of her son she'd sworn to be strong for. but how could she not?
"moon-bright boy,"  her eyes squeeze shut and she presses her lips to his temple. her jaw is clenched so tight it aches, "stupid, brave, proud boy of mine."