The End of Emily's Life

When I was a child, my nanny used to tell me stories about death. After dying, she said, the werewolf would enter the world of the Void, where the Moon Goddess would wait for her child with open arms. All the undead would rest gently in the warm, luminous embrace of Mother Luna, their sorrows washed away by silver light. But she never told me that death could be such unrelenting torment—such searing, consuming burning that seared not just flesh, but soul. A raging fire was scorching my body, hot—so hot it felt as if molten lava had been poured over my skin, seeping into every pore. I was like a bound chrysalis, wrapped tight in invisible chains, tormented by waves of burning pain that pulsed through me in merciless, rhythmic throbs. I was so miserable, so overwhelmed by agony that I wanted to scream until my throat bled, but no sound escaped my lips—my voice trapped, as if my lungs had been filled with ash. I tried to free myself, to thrash against the flames, but I had no strength lef