Chapter Two: The Wolf Who Remembers

He watched her from the shadows.

Each night, he told himself he would not return. And each night, he did.

The snow no longer bit at his paws. The cold no longer mattered. Only she did.

The girl in the cabin — the one who walked like she belonged to the mountains, who smelled of pine and turpentine and rain. The one with moonlight in her eyes.

Elara.

He did not know how he remembered her name, only that it echoed in his mind like a half-remembered song. Some nights it came like thunder. Others, like a whisper. But it always came.

The curse that bound him had stolen much. His voice. His past. His shape. And yet it had left this one thread intact — a memory, fragile and fraying, of her.

He hadn’t seen her in years. Maybe longer. Time blurred when your days were counted in seasons, not calendars. But when he stumbled back into this part of the forest — half-mad with hunger and wind — her scent had stopped him cold.

He had watched her from the edge of the trees for seven nights now. Always at the same hour. Always from the same spot. Her light would flicker on, her silhouette would move behind the frosted glass, and sometimes — if the wind was still — he could hear her humming.

Tonight, she stood outside.

Barefoot. Pale. Beautiful.

She was looking for him.

The snow clung to her long dark hair, to the sleeves of the oversized sweater she wore like armor. In her hand, she held a sketchbook, fingers tight on its spine. She stepped forward, hesitant but unafraid.

“Hello?” she called softly. Her voice curled through the trees like breath.

His throat ached.

She didn’t know what he was — not truly. To her, he was just a wolf. A haunting presence. A question without an answer. And still, she came outside.

Still, she waited.

He took a step closer. Snow crunched beneath him, and her eyes locked on his position. She couldn’t see him — not yet — but her gaze pierced through the dark like she was trying to.

His pulse quickened, even though he no longer had the heart of a man.

She turned slowly and walked back inside. The door shut behind her with a soft click, and the porch light flickered out.

The forest returned to silence.

He stood there for a long time after, unmoving, surrounded by the cold and the ghosts of who he used to be.

If she remembered him… even just a little… maybe there was hope.

Maybe not all of him was lost.

But the moon was growing fuller with each night, and he felt it — the pull of the change. The deeper he fell into the wolf, the harder it would be to crawl back.

Still, he would return tomorrow.

As long as she stood in that cabin with her sketchbook and that look in her eyes, he would find his way back.

He always had.

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