Swiftcurrent Creek all the world you roam, turns you into stone

Ghosts in the forest — and one of them appears to her. But perhaps not a ghost; this one feels all too real when it appears before her, tongue gentle against her face, soothing. Zephyr...? It must be. She can smell her child now, just a little. Slowly, she relaxes, eyes closing under the touch. The discomfort of her current state melts away to the tune of soft words she doesn't understand, and softer touches she understands perfectly. Even now, she knows the language of love well enough to feel it. The strength to return it left her sometime in the fleeting moments before her youngest child's arrival — but the comfort it brings her is not diminished.

And so she fades, quietly, dimly aware of the way the tension fades from her as the filth and mats are worked from her fur. The grief of the moment floats past her, somewhere far above her head where it cannot touch her. If her silence causes distress, she is blissfully unaware. All that Alessia knows in her last moments is the warmth and love of family, of being cared for; there's no room to question it, to second-guess. Life simply moves forward — one second with her, and the next without.