Where the Wild Things Wait

The first time he saw her, she was singing.

The sound drifted through the pines, light and uncertain, like birdsong after a long silence. It wasn’t a melody he knew, but the way it curled around the air made him stop in the snow, ears pricked forward, breath visible in the cold. She was sitting on the edge of a frozen stream, her hands cupped around something small—perhaps a stone, perhaps just warmth. He had never seen a human up close. He knew what they were, what they did, what they could do. But he had never seen one sit so still, singing softly to no one at all.

She did not smell of fear.

That was the strangest part. The others always did. Humans carried the scent of fire, metal, and caution. But this one smelled of pine needles and frost, as if she had been born from the forest itself. He took a step closer, his paws silent in the snow. Her lips stopped moving. For a moment, they only watched each other—the girl with frost-pink cheeks and the wolf with winter in his fur.

She did not run.

The second time, she saw him first. He had been trailing the scent of a deer when he caught hers instead. When he lifted his head, she was standing between two birch trees, watching him with the same quiet curiosity. Her hands were empty this time, but she did not raise them, did not make herself larger or smaller. He took a step forward. She took one back. A game. A test. But not fear.

The third time, she held out her hand.

He did not understand humans, but he understood patience. She did not push. She did not call. She only waited, her hand steady, her breathing slow. He did not step forward, not yet, but he did not leave.

Over time, he let her close. First, to a distance where he could smell the salt of her skin. Then, close enough to hear her heartbeat. Eventually, close enough that she could brush her fingers over his fur, and he could feel the weight of her touch settle into his bones. He had never known a human could be warm like this, could know how to be still. She did not chain him, did not try to tame him. She only shared the space between them, like a silent language he had never been taught but somehow knew.

She became part of the forest, and so he let himself become part of her world.

It was foolish. The others would have called him reckless, blind. But she was different. He knew she was different.

Until the day she wasn't.

He smelled them before he heard them—two men, their scents sharp with sweat and gunpowder. He saw her standing at the edge of the clearing, hands raised, mouth forming words he could not understand. But the men did not listen. They only saw a wolf. A threat. A beast.

He saw the moment fear entered her scent. He had never smelled it on her before. It filled the space between them, thick and unmistakable. It was not him she feared, but what the others would do. He heard her voice, urgent and raw. He understood none of it, yet understood everything.

A shot rang out.

The pain was a bright, searing thing, sudden and absolute. His legs folded beneath him. The snow rose to meet him, cold against his side. His breaths came in sharp, uneven bursts, the air thick with iron. He tried to lift his head, to find her face, but the world had begun to blur.

And then she was there. Hands pressing against his fur, her voice breaking apart like the wind through dry branches. He wanted to tell her it was alright. He had never known words, but he had known her, and that should have been enough. But it wasn’t.

Because when he looked into her eyes, he saw something he had never seen before.

Regret.

Not for what the men had done. Not for the blood in the snow.

But for what she had made him believe.

She had never been part of the forest.

She had only been passing through.