In the moment he dies, he is a lion.
He wakes up ordinary, and he organizes his broken pieces, and he stands up. His organization skills are a little poor, and the edges shine through his fur, line his steps, become his jagged crown. This has been his normal for seven months, silent and ceaseless, where he is a shell nursing hollow laughs and unborn words. It's been an eternity since she died, jaded countless days a monotonous flash, and he spends them counting the ways she smiled and the way she talked; he cultivates her memories, and in this way, she lives more than he does.
The river's voice is a siren's call. His mother's favourite weapon. He steps in, because he just wants to see her, and he is brave as he drowns; lion-hearted, made small in the infinity of death.