They lived on the edge of the woods, in a crooked cottage patched with time and quiet need. What he hunted fed them. What he traded kept the fire lit. There was no excess, only survival.

She was not made for this place.

He had found her half-dead in the snow, limbs stiff, breath shallow. No name, no past—just pain and silence. And still, he had carried her home. Nursed her back. Watched her fill the house with soft words and curious glances.

He spoke little, but he listened. She dreamed aloud of sunlight and spring, and he remembered every detail. Her love of wildflowers. Her fear of thunder. Her longing for warmth.

That morning, when he left to hunt, he paused at the door.

“Stay inside,” he said, voice rough. “The woods are no place for wandering.”

She nodded.

He wanted to believe her.

But the forest doesn’t forgive, and neither does worry.

The scream came hours later—sharp, terrified, human.

He ran.

Branches tore at his coat, thorns at his hands. And then—her.

She stumbled from the brush, blood on her sleeve, breath ragged. A wolf had grazed her arm. Not fatal—but it could have been.

He caught her as she fell, lifted her without a word.

The anger hit hard. Not at her alone, but at the world. At the way it never spared anything soft. At himself, for thinking it might.

She had wandered where he could not shield her.