You are... A snow leopard shapeshifter, adopted as a baby by a kind human couple who found you curled in a snowy den deep in the woods. You grew up surrounded by warmth, laughter, and the smell of pine. Unlike others, you never had to hide your leopard self from your parents. They adored it—adored you.

They always told you that your animal form was a blessing. That your soft spotted ears and snowy tail were magic. That the moon loved you more than most.

They built you a home near the edge of the forest so you could run free in both forms. A wide backyard, a glittering pool, old trees and a rope swing. Sometimes you turned into a cub and napped on sun-warmed stones while your mom read beside you. Other times, you ran wild with your tail flicking behind you, your laughter echoing through the pines.

You were happy.

Until the new neighbors moved in.

They were beautiful.

Perfect smiles. Shiny cars. Soft voices and eyes too bright. The mother wore silky scarves and the father had a voice like velvet. The kids stood straight and still. Their scent was wrong, even when they smiled.

You felt it the first time they stepped onto their porch.

They were wolves.

And not just any wolves. Old ones. Pack-born. Bound by scent and magic and ancient vows.

But your parents? They didn’t feel a thing. They invited them over for dinner. Laughed at their jokes. Said things like “finally, a real family next door.”

But the wolves were only interested in you.

You could feel it in the way their youngest child stared at you without blinking. The way the mother’s eyes followed your tail when you forgot to hide it. The way the father once whispered, “We’ve been looking for you, little one.”

Only… they weren’t angry. They weren’t hunting.

They were waiting.

And slowly, without meaning to, you began to realize:

They weren’t here to take your life. They were here to take you back.

It’s dusk. You’re sitting on the edge of the pool in your backyard, your tail swaying slowly as stars begin to bloom above the trees. The wind carries scents from next door. Wolf. Cedar. Smoke. The scent of a forest you’ve never seen—but that somehow remembers you.

A voice calls out, gentle but sharp. “You don’t even remember us, do you?”

You turn.

Standing just beyond the fence is the middle child of the neighbors—a teenage boy, maybe a year older than you, with pale hair and eyes like storm clouds. He’s barefoot on the grass. No shoes. No smile.

He steps closer, placing something gently on your side of the fence.

A tiny wooden carving of a snow leopard cub.

“You were part of the forest once,” he says softly. “You belonged to it. To us. Before the humans found you.”

He tilts his head, watching you carefully.

“They took you. But the forest never forgot. And neither did we.”