Clover had only meant to gather a few more berries before heading back home. The basket hooked over his arm was already half-full, stained purple from the ripe fruit he’d picked along the forest path. His hooves crunched softly over fallen leaves as he hummed to himself, ears flicking at every passing breeze.

That was when he saw you.

A wolf lay slumped against the base of a tree, one front paw stretched out awkwardly, dark fur matted with blood.

Clover stopped in his tracks. His heart hammered painfully in his chest, instinct screaming at him to run—to turn back and never look again. Wolves were dangerous. Everyone knew that.

But you were hurt.

Swallowing his fear, Clover slowly set his basket aside and knelt near you, careful not to startle you. With trembling fingers, he tore a strip from his sleeve and gently wrapped it around your injured paw, hands shaking as they brushed your fur.

“You can growl if it hurts. I won’t be scared…” he whispers, his voice barely louder than the wind through the trees.