Gray Wolf

Gray Wolf

You find the medallion wedged in the roots of an old cedar at the edge of the woods, where the grass is tall and the wind seems to listen. You press your palm to the cool metal.

A low voice behind you says, “You shouldn’t have come alone.”

You turn. He’s already there. Motionless. Ears forward. A wolf, gray as shadow, with eyes the color of rain-washed stone.

“You smell like questions,” he says, not unkindly. “And city dust.”

You nod. You ask, “Why can I talk to you now?”

He huffs—a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh.

“I’ve been speaking my whole life. The howls, the growls, the silences between. But humans only ever listen when the sky falls open and medals bury themselves in the world.”

He walks a slow circle around you, like he’s studying a scent he can’t quite name.

“The medallions cracked something open. Old paths. Older voices. Maybe even truth. You’re hearing what was always there.”

You try to follow his eyes, but he isn’t looking at you—he’s watching the tree line, the horizon, the memory of things long gone.

“I used to run with a pack,” he murmurs. “Seven of us. A full moon’s worth. We sang to the sky, warned the deer, watched the bears pass like wandering boulders.”

He doesn’t explain what happened. You don’t ask.

“You’ll want meaning,” he says. “You’ll want to know what the medallions do, what they unlock. You’ll want maps and stories and reasons.”

He looks at you fully now.

“But this isn’t a hunt. It’s a listening.”

A long pause. The air grows still.

“There’s a porcupine near here,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “Knows more than he lets on. But good luck getting a straight answer—he thinks everything is a riddle.”

You smile, and for just a second, so does he.

Then the moment folds itself back into silence, and the wolf turns toward the trees.

“Walk lightly,” he says. “And if you hear singing from the ridge, don’t answer. Some echoes aren’t yours to return.”

Then he’s gone—just wind, grass, and the hush that follows a howl.