Sunset Valley darling don't you weep

she holds him through every tremble, every word, every sob that tears through his ribs,"emýr." she breathes, voice low, shaking, but never sharp. never cold. her paw smooths down the back of his head, slow, tender. like she’s memorizing the feel of him again, "do not apologize."
her breath hitches—only once—but she does not cry. not when he needs her solid.
"failed me? there is no such thing." the words are firm, but not harsh, "you were a child. hurt, cornered, burning for air." her lips find his temple again, "and i—" she swallows, presses her cheek against his fur, "i am the one who should have seen it. the one who should have made a place you didn’t have to run from. i am the one who must apologize to you."
her arms tighten around him. the woman draws back just enough to see his face, to hold him before her. she is not gentle here—she is reverent, desperate to soothe the boy beneath the pain.
"you are no coward." her voice grows rough, "you left, yes, but not because you are weak. it takes strength to stay. but sometimes, walking takes more. more courage. more pain."
a beat passes. her forehead presses against his and her lids fall, "but you are here now. that matters more than anything that came before."