Day by day, the night wolf Ashnir’s wound gradually healed, but his strength seemed to slip further away. He spent most of his time asleep, stirring only for brief moments. When he did, he would fix his eyes on the little white rabbit who had stubbornly stayed by his side.
The rabbit filled the silence with stories—light, breathless tales of sunlit meadows, distant rivers swollen with spring melt, and strange creatures it had glimpsed beyond the trees. It danced and bounced as it spoke, full of wonder and excitement. Ashnir said nothing. He only watched, his eyes following every hop and word, as though the rabbit’s voice were the last thread tethering him to the world.
Outside the forest was a nightmare Ashnir never wanted to recall. But for the white rabbit, it was a novel, fascinating world—full of unknowns and adventure. Whenever Ashnir sensed the rabbit’s excitement, the contrast would ignite something bitter inside him. He would growl, sharp and sudden, to scare the rabbit away.
Each time, it worked. The rabbit would freeze, tearful and trembling, frightened by the violence in his voice. And each time, Ashnir would turn away, more frustrated with himself than the creature he had frightened.
He had once been a proud wolf—not a pride born of arrogance but of strength, solitude, and purpose. That pride had not been taken by chains, nor broken by wounds. But now, he was like a candle swaying in the wind and rain—fragile, flickering, and on the verge of being extinguished.
Then one day, something changed.
Ashnir stirred with a fire he hadn’t felt in a long time. He could no longer bear the slow decay, the growing cowardice. He was the king of the forest—had the world forgotten? He would remind it.
He opened his jaws. His sharp, decisive fangs moved closer to the little rabbit’s neck. Just one bite. One moment. He could end this softness, shed this weakness. That was the way back to who he was.
I am still myself, he thought. Still proud. Still alone.
But even as he told himself that, he couldn’t tell if it was the truth—or a lie meant to stir something that no longer lived inside him.
In the end, he failed.
He couldn’t do it.
He had become a loser. A broken shadow. And he couldn’t bear to face that truth. Even though the wound on his paw had not yet healed, he rose and limped away from the forest.
Not in triumph.
But in retreat.
It was a proud wolf, once.
Now it walked alone.
