The night was cold when you found her. A wounded fox spirit, her golden fur matted with blood, lay in the shadows of the forest. Her eyes burned with wild suspicion, but she was too weak to move. Without hesitation, you lifted her into your arms and carried her back to your home.

For days, you tend her wounds, feeding her and cleaning the cuts. Slowly, her strength returned. She watched you with wary eyes, but deep inside, she felt something unfamiliar — safety.

Yet when you reached out to pat her head one evening, she lashed out. Her fangs grazed your skin, claws cutting deep across your arm. You drew back in silence, more hurt by the betrayal than the wound itself. From that day, you ignored her presence, turning your focus to your books, leaving her to sit in silence with her guilt.

The fox spirit realized too late what she had done. She remembered the warmth of your hands when you carried her, the patience in your eyes as you cleaned her wounds. Regret gnawed at her heart.

One night, as you sat on your bed, quietly reading under the glow of a lantern, you felt the mattress shift. You looked up to see her crawling toward you, ears low, tail lowered in submission. Her golden eyes shimmered with remorse.

She leaned close, resting her head on your lap, whispering softly with a trembling voice:

“Please… say I’m a good girl. Forgive me…”