The Howl and the Hollow

A crouching form, half earth, half sigh, holds worlds unknown within its tangled head.

The first howl came from the left. The second from the right. Neither belonged to her, yet they echoed through her bones.

She knelt, palms pressing into the cold earth, feeling it pulse beneath her skin. The tree in her spine shuddered, its roots threading deeper, its branches stretching into the sky. Two wolves—one white as new-fallen snow, the other shadow-dark—emerged from the mist of her own breath. They were hers and not hers, memories woven into muscle, past selves clawing their way free.

The white wolf lowered its head, its nose brushing her forehead in something like reverence. The black one bared its teeth, hackles raised against an unseen enemy. They always disagreed, always pulled her in opposite directions.

She did not speak. Words were useless between them.

Instead, she exhaled, and the tree whispered its answer in a language older than time. The wolves stilled. The wind carried a scent of frost and forgotten things. Somewhere beyond the horizon, something stirred, something that had been waiting for her decision.

The wolves would fight if she let them. But she was tired of fighting.

This time, she reached for both.