The Werewolf noticed that my clothes were torn—ripped during the harrowing chase through the wolf pack, cruelly scratched by sharp branches.
The edges of the fabric were jagged, like wounds violently torn open; some parts had even frayed, threads dangling in disarray, making me look utterly disheveled.
He looked at my tattered, scarred garment, and in his eyes, a faint trace of tenderness flickered—subtle and almost imperceptible.
That tenderness was like a wisp of smoke, quickly hidden behind his deep, enigmatic gaze, yet I caught it with keen sensitivity.
Without a word, he decided to make me a new cloak. Alone, he ventured deep into the forest, his steps steady and resolute.
Relying on his sharp sense of smell and outstanding tracking skills, he soon found a recently deceased wild animal.
It was a robust stag, its fur shimmering faintly under the slanting sunlight.
The Werewolf skillfully skinned the beast, his movements clean and efficient, without a trace of hesitation.
With a stone knife in hand, he precisely sliced through the layers between skin and flesh, each motion a perfect blend of strength and finesse.
His eyes were focused and solemn, as if performing a sacred ritual.
Back at the cabin, he began carefully crafting the cloak. First, he used a sharp stone blade to smooth and flatten the hide, every cut made with utmost caution, afraid to spoil this precious material.
Then, he retrieved some treasured tough vines from a corner, soaking them in water until they softened and became pliable yet resilient.
With preparations complete, he sat on a large stone in front of the cabin and started the long, meticulous sewing process.
His thick fingers deftly handled the fine vines, as if tending to the most fragile treasure in the world.
Every stitch was made with great care, as if creating a priceless work of art.
He frequently held the cloak up to the sunlight, squinting to inspect for any flaws or uneven spots.
When the cloak was finally finished, he approached me with a proud smile.
That smile was like the first ray of morning sunlight piercing through the leaves—warm and bright.
Gently, he draped the cloak over my shoulders. The soft animal hide touched my skin, and an overwhelming warmth spread through me.
This warmth came not just from the cloak’s insulating properties but from the deep care and affection the Werewolf poured into it.
The fur still carried his body heat and scent, making me feel as if I were tightly embraced by him.
That day, the sunlight filtered softly through the forest, like a delicate golden veil gently draping the earth.
We walked together through the woods, the dry leaves and grass beneath our feet crunching softly.
The Werewolf walked by my side, his steps steady yet light, his tall figure shielding me from stray branches.
He pointed to an unassuming little plant by the path and said, “This is bloodstop herb. If you get hurt, it can quickly stop the bleeding.”
The plant’s leaves were slender, edged with tiny serrations, and a faint herbal fragrance drifted from the green sap flowing within the leaves.
Then, he took me to a large tree and said, “Look, this hollow is a squirrel’s home.” I looked up and saw the entrance filled with tiny twigs and leaves, as if the squirrel had carefully arranged a cozy little nest. Around the opening, a few uneaten pinecones lay scattered, releasing the forest’s unique, fresh aroma.
As we passed a patch of flowers, he bent down and picked a small blossom. “This flower may be tiny, but it’s fragrant—it can lift your spirits.”
He tucked the flower into my hair and smiled at me. The flower was a delicate shade of pale purple, its small petals clustered together to form an exquisite little bouquet, exuding an enchanting fragrance.
He also showed me a hidden bird’s nest nestled in the grass, containing a few tiny eggs.
“This is the nest of a thrush. When the chicks hatch, this place will be lively and full of life.”
The nest was woven from dry grass and slender twigs, delicate and warm, like a gentle cradle gifted by nature itself.
Along the way, he kept introducing me to various plants and animals in the forest, deepening my understanding of this natural world.
I listened intently to his explanations, my heart filled with curiosity and reverence for the forest.
Every plant, every creature carried a unique story and significance through his words.
However, while exploring the forest on my own, I accidentally got lost.
At first, I didn’t realize how serious the situation was and simply followed my instincts, moving forward.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting patches of light on the ground that made me mistakenly believe I was on a familiar path.
But as time passed, the scenery around me grew increasingly unfamiliar. The towering trees seemed to transform into identical faces, coldly watching me, a lost intruder.
I tried to find the markers we had made earlier—simple signs arranged with stones or twigs.
But those markers seemed to have vanished, either hidden by dense grass or new foliage.
The trees all looked the same, indistinguishable. Their tall branches intertwined, creating a vast green maze that left me disoriented.
I called out the Werewolf’s name loudly. My voice echoed through the silent forest, but only my own echoes and the rustling leaves answered back.
It felt as if the forest was mocking my ignorance and recklessness, filling me with helplessness and fear.
With every step, I hoped to see something familiar or hear the Werewolf’s reply.
But aside from the occasional bird flying by or a small animal darting through, there was nothing.
When the Werewolf realized I was missing, he anxiously searched everywhere. His eyes were filled with worry and fear; he was terrified that I might be in danger.
His heartbeat quickened, pounding as if it might burst from his chest. His breathing grew rapid, each breath heavy with deep anxiety.
He carefully retraced the path we had taken, not overlooking a single possible corner.
His gaze swept urgently over the grass, branches, and stones, desperate to find any trace I might have left behind.
His ears perked up, listening intently for any sound that might be connected to me.
As he searched, he called out my name, his voice echoing through the forest.
That voice was filled with urgency and unease, shattering the forest’s peaceful silence.
His footsteps were hurried and chaotic, crossing streams and pushing through thorns, his fur soaked with sweat, yet he didn’t slow down for a moment.
When he finally found me, the anxiety on his face instantly melted into joy and relief.
His eyes sparkled with excitement, like a beacon suddenly lighting up the darkness.
He pulled me tightly into his embrace, and I could feel his heart pounding wildly—each beat a raw release of his fear and tension.
His arms wrapped around me with strength and safety, like an unbreakable fortress shielding me from all harm. He held me so tightly, as if afraid that letting go even for a second would make me disappear again.
From that day forward, I could clearly sense a deeper change in his feelings for me.
There was a new softness and longing in his gaze, no longer just simple care and concern.
His eyes were like a springtime lake—warm and profound—drawing me in irresistibly.
He would brush his hand against mine in the most casual moments, and though brief, those touches carried a depth of feeling.
Sometimes it was when handing me fruit, his fingers lightly grazing my palm; other times, a chance brush of arms as we walked side by side. Each contact sent a faint current through me, making my heart flutter.
When we sat together by the campfire, he would quietly gaze at me, the light in his eyes quickening my heartbeat.
The flickering flames danced across his face, sharpening his features and making his eyes seem even more mysterious and captivating.
He began to care more deeply about how I felt, always considering my thoughts before making decisions.
For instance, when choosing where to rest, he’d first ask if I liked the spot; when dividing food, he’d prioritize my needs.
And I, in turn, found myself growing ever more dependent on him, my attachment deepening with this blossoming love.
Every time I saw his figure, a warm current surged through my heart, filling me with an unparalleled sense of comfort and happiness.
