Margaret didn’t give up. She stayed at the railing long after the others had stepped back, her voice low and steady, threading through the silence. “You’re alright, King. I know you. I’ve known you since you were no bigger than my arm.” Each word was careful, patient.
King’s growls softened, his breathing steadying. Slowly, he shifted his massive body, the tension bleeding from his shoulders. Margaret inched her hand toward the ground, palm open, as though coaxing him into remembering gentler days. “That’s it,” she murmured. “Show me what you’ve been hiding.”