The Wolf That Was His Heart

The boy was born with a wolf curled inside his ribs. It was restless—pacing in the hollow of his chest, scratching against the bone. Some nights, when the moon pressed its silver teeth against the earth, he felt it gnawing.

He tried to tame it. He whispered to it, fed it soft words, tried to soothe the hunger in its eyes. But wolves are not meant to be quiet.

One night, he stood beneath the sky, arms open, chest bare. He let the wolf rise.

It stepped from his skin like mist from morning, muscles coiled, eyes burning gold. The boy felt empty. Felt whole.

The wolf did not run. It did not leave him behind. Instead, it stood beside him, watching the horizon.

And when the dawn came, they walked forward—together.