They say the ones who walk alone have already seen too much. It was in the winter when I first saw her—thin as smoke, but proud. Her coat was silver-gray like moonlight over river stones, her ribs sharp from hunger, but her eyes… her eyes were old. Not old like years. Old like mountains. I was walking through red pine and snow, checking traps I had no intention of setting. Just needed to breathe. The forest had gone quiet—no wind, no birds. That’s when I saw her: Waya. The wolf. She didn’t run. Didn’t snarl. Just stood there with one paw lifted like she’d been deciding whether to leave the world behind or not. I laid down my eyes first, then my knife. Sat in the snow. Didn't say a word. We listened to each other in silence, the way only those who’ve been betrayed by the world can do. She watched me every day after that. At first from the trees, then closer—by the fire, then by my cabin. She wouldn’t eat from my hand. Not then. But she stayed. And each night, I’d talk to her. Not like a man talks to a pet—but like one spirit greets another that’s just returned from the dark. I told her stories. Of the Bear who cried stars into the sky. Of the boy who became lightning. Of my mother’s last breath and the cedar wood that caught her song. And still, Waya listened. It took a month before she touched her nose to my palm. When she did, I swear the wind moved again. The woods came back to life. The crows returned. She was never mine. Not really. The wild doesn't belong to us—it only visits, when we’ve earned its trust. But I’ll tell you this: Every story I tell now, carries her breath. Every silence I sit in, I leave room for her shadow. Waya—the one who came alone, and chose to stay.
Waya.