The final test ended with a click and a sigh of machinery. Aaron sat still as a technician peeled the last set of electrodes from his chest, the cold pads leaving faint circles against his fur. No one spoke right away. He hated that—the quiet pause where he was reminded he was a stack of data before he was a person.
At last, Dr. Mercer—thin glasses, clipboard always in hand—gave a curt nod to his parents. "Stabilization markers are consistent. No anomalies in the past seventy-two hours." Her voice was clinical, but the words carried weight. She shut the folder and added, almost like an afterthought, "He's clear to return home. We'll schedule follow-ups, of course."
Aaron's chest loosened, though only a little. Clear to return home. It sounded more like parole than freedom.
Catherine exhaled audibly, relief softening her shoulders. David only nodded, jaw tight, but his hand lingered on Aaron's shoulder a moment longer than usual as they left the room.
The drive home was quiet. Not peaceful—quiet in the way grief is, heavy and hard to breathe through. The radio stayed off, the hum of the engine the only sound filling the car. Aaron kept his eyes on the blur of passing streets, forehead pressed to the glass. Every bump in the road rattled through his bones, but he didn't move.
When they pulled into the driveway, Catherine touched his arm lightly, as if to remind him he was here, safe. He nodded but said nothing, slipping out of the car before either of them could speak.
Home.
The word felt fragile. The house looked the same—the chipped paint on the mailbox, the crooked curtain in the upstairs window—but stepping inside was like walking into a photograph. Frozen. Too familiar and yet so alien at once.
He didn't wait for small talk. Didn't wait for comfort. He went straight to his room and shut the door, pressing his back against it as if to keep the whole world out.
The scent hit him first. His scent—lingering faintly in the sheets, the books, the pillow he collapsed face-first into. It was him, but it wasn't. It was before.
Before the fur.
Before the tail.
Before the glass walls and clipped voices.
A sob punched its way out of his throat before he could stop it. He curled tighter into the pillow, muffling the sound, but the tears came anyway—hot, silent, merciless. His chest ached with the force of it. Days under sterile lights had left him brittle, too proud to crack. But here, in the dim quiet of his room, the dam broke.
Minutes, maybe hours passed. Eventually, the storm dulled into a hollow ache. Aaron dragged himself upright, eyes raw and sore, and wandered toward his desk. A book lay where he had left it weeks ago, spine creased from a half-finished chapter.
He picked it up with care, fingers trembling as claws pressed against the familiar cover. He eased himself into the chair and began to read, the words blurring until they finally focused. The story wasn't enough to distract him, but it gave his hands somewhere to rest. Something almost ordinary.
The door creaked softly. A familiar scent reached him before the sound did.
Catherine lingered in the doorway, her hand resting lightly against the frame. The lamplight caught the curve of her face, the tired shadows beneath her eyes. She looked at him the way someone looks at a photograph they're afraid to smudge—close enough to see, too far to touch.
Aaron's ears twitched again, betraying him. "I can hear you," he said softly, without looking up.
She hesitated, then stepped in just far enough for the floorboards to creak. "Of course you can," she whispered, the words small, careful.
He swallowed hard and set the book down, claws tapping lightly against the desk. He wanted to say something—don't look at me like that, don't pretend this is normal, don't leave either—but the words tangled in his chest.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, barely above the hum of the lamp.
Catherine blinked, startled. "For what?"
His shoulders hunched. "Everything."
Her lips parted like she wanted to argue, but the protest caught in her throat. She crossed the last steps quietly and set a hand against the back of his chair. Not on him—just close enough for him to feel the warmth.
"There's nothing to be sorry for," she said. Her voice was steady, but her eyes shimmered with something she wouldn't let fall.
He didn't answer. Couldn't. The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was full, heavy with all the words neither of them dared to speak.
Catherine gave the chair the gentlest squeeze before stepping back, retreating to the doorway. "Get some rest," she said.
Aaron nodded once, but he didn't turn around.
She lingered a heartbeat longer, yearning pressed into every line of her face, then slipped away. The door clicked shut, leaving him alone with the soft glow of the lamp, the book unread in his lap, and the echo of her absence.
Aaron stared at the page until the letters blurred. His throat worked once, twice, like he was about to call after her. The word Mom trembled at the back of his tongue, aching to be spoken.
But it never left his mouth.
Aaron shut the book and set it down carefully on the desk, as though even the sound of closing it might shatter the thin thread of calm left in the room. His chest still ached, the unsaid word burning like it had scorched his throat on the way up.
The silence after Catherine's footsteps faded wasn't like the lab's silence. The lab had been all hums and mechanical rhythms, the sense of being watched. Here, the quiet was heavier, more personal. Every creak of the old house, every faint groan of wood in the walls reminded him of nights he used to lie awake, staring at the glow of his alarm clock, knowing his family was just a door away.
Now, it was just him. His parents existed in the same house, yes—but not in the same world. At least, that's how it felt.
He stretched out on the bed again, muzzle sinking deep into the pillow. The scent there was fainter than it had been earlier, his tears diluting it, pulling it further into memory. He dug his claws gently into the fabric, careful not to tear this time. It was the closest thing to holding onto himself that he had.
His tail twitched against the mattress, restless, betraying him. He hated how alive his body felt now—every nerve sharper, every sound and scent dragging him further from who he had been. He used to curl into bed and feel small. Safe. Now he only felt… contained.
Rolling onto his back, Aaron stared at the ceiling. Shadows shifted faintly with the sway of the trees outside his window. For a moment, if he squinted, it almost felt like the days before the change—when a passing car's headlights would flicker across his walls, when rain would patter against the roof, when he'd listen for his mom's voice calling him down for dinner.
The ache in his chest grew unbearable. He covered his eyes with one padded hand, as if blocking out the ceiling could block out the ache too.
From somewhere down the hall, he heard the faint murmur of his parents' voices—low, careful, like they didn't want him to catch the words. He couldn't make them out, but he didn't need to. He knew the cadence: worry, exhaustion, maybe guilt. He swallowed hard, ears flattening, and rolled over to bury himself deeper in the blanket.
The house groaned again, and for just a breath, Aaron wished the silence would swallow him whole.
But it didn't. It left him there instead—between the boy he used to be and the shape he was now, clutching at both and holding neither.