The child curled up beside the wolf like she’d known him through a thousand lifetimes, tiny hand still grippin’ the corner of Poppy’s sleeve. The fire flickered slow, throwin’ shadows up the trees like old ghosts climbin’ their own memories. Poppy stared at the girl, heart thrashin’ like a wild bird inside her ribs. Ash leaned forward, elbows on his knees, jaw tight with worry he couldn’t name yet.
Enna Mae didn’t sit. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe for a few long seconds.
She just watched the child.
Not the way adults watch children to make sure they’re safe.
No.
She watched her like someone seein’ a spirit she hoped she’d never meet,
and prayin’ she was wrong —
but knowin’ she wasn’t.
The girl shifted in her sleep, curls spillin’ across her forehead, the firelight catchin’ the coppery-gold strands like they were lit from inside. And right then, the owl called again — the same soft, mournful hoot it had given when Poppy first stepped onto the mountain path.
The flames sank low, hissin’ like they recognized the blood in the child’s veins.
Cypress let out a low whine.
Ash whispered, “Enna Mae… you alright? You look like you seen somethin’.”
Enna Mae didn’t answer.
She walked around the fire slow, boots silent on the pine needles, crouched in front of the sleeping girl, and gently brushed a leaf from her tangled hair. Her fingers trembled. The wolf’s golden eyes followed her hand without movin’ a muscle.
Then Enna Mae sucked in a sharp breath.
A sound like someone rememberin’ a nightmare they’d hidden under the bed.
Poppy leaned in. “What? What is it? Is she hurt?”
Enna Mae shook her head, eyes wide, voice barely a whisper.
“No, sugar.
She ain’t hurt.”
Her gaze lifted to Poppy’s face — and her expression softened into something heavy, holy, and heartbroken.
“Child…” Enna Mae said, barely breathin’ the words,
“look at her.”
Poppy looked. Really looked.
And something inside her shivered.
The shape of her jaw.
The stubborn tilt of her mouth.
The way she clung even in sleep —
like she’d been born holdin’ on for dear life.
Her eyes snapped back to Enna Mae.
“What are you tryin’ to say?”
Enna Mae placed a hand over her own chest like she was steadyin’ her heart.
“Lord help us…”
She swallowed hard, tears she didn’t shed pricklin’ behind her eyes.
“…she’s a Hale.”
The woods went dead quiet.
Even the night wind froze in its tracks.
Ash whispered, “No. No, that ain’t possible. Poppy’s the only—”
Enna Mae cut him off with a slow shake of her head.
“I ain’t mistaken. I’ve lived long enough and seen enough to know blood when I feel it. That child is Hale-born. Hale-marked. Hale-made.”
Poppy’s breath stuttered.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“But how—”
Enna Mae reached out, touched Poppy’s cheek gentle as a prayer.
“Sugar… the mountain shows you what you’re ready to see, not what you expect. If she’s standin’ here on your path, on the day you go lookin’ for Pocahontas…”
She glanced at the girl again.
“Then your momma’s story ain’t done.
And neither is yours.”
Poppy felt tears slip hot down her face, though she didn’t know why — grief, relief, terror, all tangled up like briars.
Ash whispered, “So who is she?”
Enna Mae’s voice dropped into the kind of silence that feels like scripture.
“She’s the part of the story your momma couldn’t carry with her. The piece she had to leave behind. And the piece you gotta face before you find her.”
Then she added, barely audible, like the woods themselves leaned in to hear it:
“Blood calls blood, Inola.
And this little one…
she’s callin’ you home.”
Granny Woman 
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