The bus groaned to a stop with a hiss of brakes and a cloud of gravel dust.
Calen Thorn didn’t move. His fingers tightened around the worn strap of his duffel bag as he stared out the grimy window. The sign outside still stood crooked, bent slightly from the last time it snowed too hard.
> Welcome to Graybridge – Population 4,092.
We’re not lost, just hidden.
His lips twitched. Still the same lie.
He stepped off the bus into silence. No one else got off. No one came to meet him.
The driver gave him a nod that might’ve been sympathy, or maybe just relief to be done with this eerie mountain town. Either way, the door squealed shut behind him, and the bus pulled away, leaving him alone on the cracked sidewalk of Main Street.
Graybridge hadn’t changed. Same weather-beaten buildings. Same hushed glances through dusty windows. Same smell—pine needles, motor oil, and something else. Earthier. Older.
Like the woods were breathing.
He shifted the bag on his shoulder and walked.
---
Each step toward his childhood home felt like stepping back in time and deeper into something… wrong.
He passed The Vale Diner, its neon sign flickering. Passed Orrin’s Garage, where he’d once scraped his knees falling off a bike. Passed the old bakery with its boarded windows—closed since the fire.
The fire.
He swallowed hard.
People watched from behind curtains. He felt it. Like heat on the back of his neck.
It wasn’t him they were seeing, though.
It was the boy who vanished two years ago without a sound. Sixteen years old, gone into the woods, never seen again.
Until now.
---
He took the long way to the house.
Avoiding the shortcut through Hollow’s Bend. The trees were thicker there. Hungrier.
The last time he walked that path, he never came out.
---
The Thorn house looked smaller than he remembered. Gray siding chipped and weathered, porch steps sagging. But it was still standing. Still waiting.
He opened the gate, which shrieked on rusted hinges, and stepped onto the overgrown path.
Halfway to the door, a low voice spoke.
“You shouldn’t have come back.”
Calen froze.
The voice was calm. Sharp. Familiar.
He turned slowly, heart thudding—and found himself face-to-face with someone who shouldn’t be standing there.
Rowan Vale.
Slightly taller. Broader. But unmistakable. Same silvery gray eyes, like mist before a storm. Same stiff posture, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Calen remembered those eyes.
He remembered the way they’d looked at him back then—like he was something fragile. Or dangerous. Or both.
“I don’t remember asking your permission,” Calen said flatly.
Rowan’s jaw ticked. “This town buried you.”
“Clearly not deep enough.”
The silence between them stretched. Not awkward. Not hostile. Just... crackling. Tense. Unfinished.
Rowan stepped forward. “Something’s wrong, Calen.”
Calen blinked. “No kidding.”
“You don’t smell right.”
He paused.
“You remember the forest?” Rowan asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Calen stared at him.
He opened his mouth—then shut it. Because something in him did remember. Not memories. Not words.
But hunger. Cold. Pain.
And something deeper. A howl he’d never heard but would recognize anywhere.
Rowan’s eyes darkened. “They’ll come for you.”
“Let them,” Calen said. “I came back to find answers.”
Rowan stepped close enough that Calen could feel the heat off his skin. “You came back to find the wolf, didn’t you?”
Calen’s breath caught.
Rowan leaned in, eyes burning silver.
“You don’t find the wolf, Calen,” he said softly.
“You are the wolf.”
And then Rowan turned and walked away—vanishing down the road, swallowed by fog and memory.
---
Alone again, Calen stood on the porch, heart pounding.
He looked up at the sky.
The moon wasn’t full. Not yet. But it was coming.
And something inside him stirred.
Not fear.
Something deeper.
Something wild.
...****************...
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