And more than once, I could swear the wolf answered.
Not with a howl.
With something closer to harmony.
Then one winter… the smoke stopped rising from her chimney.
I waited longer than I should have.
Because denial is easier than grief.
When I finally climbed the ridge, I found Isolde in her chair, wrapped in quilts and silence.
The mountain felt hollow after that.
The sheriff came.
The coroner followed.
The cabin was locked with official indifference.
And nobody noticed the wolf at the tree line watching her body leave.
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