Chapter 1: A Town with No Edges

“Somewhere in the silence between trees, I found something watching. And it felt like home.”

---

The first thing Hera noticed about Thornveil Hollow was how the town didn’t seem to end or begin. No welcoming gates, no real center, not even a proper signpost—just trees. Endless rows of towering pines and dark green ferns that pressed so close to the roads it felt like they could breathe on you.

It was late afternoon when the bus dropped her off on the edge of the only paved road. She stepped down with her canvas bag slung over one shoulder, her boots crunching onto the gravel as the bus pulled away with a hiss and a groan, leaving behind the scent of exhaust and the sound of her own breathing.

Nobody came to meet her.

But she hadn’t expected anyone to. She chose this place specifically because it was quiet, because no one knew her name here. She didn’t need welcoming smiles or nosy neighbors asking where she came from or why her eyes looked too tired for someone her age. She just needed quiet. Distance. And something she hadn’t been able to name since the moment she lost her mother three months ago.

Peace, maybe. Or a place that didn’t look like the city that swallowed her whole.

The gravel path ahead twisted through the woods, leading to a cabin she'd only seen in pictures. It took her twenty minutes on foot to reach it, every step surrounded by birdsong, the rustle of dry leaves, and something else—something she couldn’t quite place. Not threatening. Not loud. Just… watchful.

She paused once on the path, glancing back behind her.

Nothing. Not a soul.

The cottage was modest—old wood siding stained deep brown, a small wraparound porch, and flower beds overgrown with moss. There was a rocking chair, faded blue curtains behind the window panes, and a cast iron bell beside the door. No key under the mat, because the door wasn’t locked. Just as the landlord had promised in her last email.

Hera dropped her bag inside the entrance and stood still for a full minute. It smelled like pine and dust and something faintly sweet—lavender oil, maybe, or dried herbs left in the kitchen rafters. She liked it instantly.

She made tea without turning on her phone. She sat by the fireplace with her knees drawn up, sipping in silence. No notifications. No lights. Just the soft whistle of wind outside.

That night, Hera couldn’t sleep.

She lay under a quilt too soft to be new, one hand pressed beneath her cheek, her mind drifting in and out of the shadows of grief that still clung to her bones. She had thought she wanted silence, but silence had teeth when it stretched too long.

At one point, just past midnight, she rose and stood barefoot by the living room window.

It was then that she saw him.

Not a person. Not a hunter or hiker. But a wolf.

Large. Still. At the very edge of the tree line.

His fur shimmered like silver dipped in ash, long and thick, streaked with charcoal along the legs and back. The moonlight caught the slope of his shoulder as he stepped forward once—just enough for her to see the eyes.

Not amber. Not gold.

Storm-gray. Cold. Unblinking.

Her breath caught.

They stared at each other through the glass, separated by thirty feet and the space between two worlds. But Hera didn’t feel fear. She should have. She was alone in the woods and this was a wild animal—but the emotion rising in her chest wasn’t panic.

It was… recognition.

He tilted his head slightly. She didn’t move. Her hand stayed against the windowpane as if something in her bones remembered this shape, this shadow, this stillness.

And then, just like that, he vanished between the trees.

---

Morning came with mist and the scent of damp leaves. Hera dressed in jeans and a warm sweater, laced up her boots, and decided to walk the trail her landlord mentioned in the listing.

“Good for quiet walks. Watch for deer.”

The air was sharp, still laced with the cool of mountain wind. She followed the path down behind the cottage, winding between oaks and moss-laced pine trunks, the sunlight peeking weakly through the leaves. Her thoughts wandered, the way they often did now—drifting between half-memories and the hollow shape her mother’s voice left behind.

Then she stepped wrong.

Her foot caught on a root, the slope beneath her slick with dew. She let out a sharp yelp as she slipped and tumbled down the embankment, landing hard on her hands and knees.

Pain flared up her palms. She hissed, rolling slightly to sit. Dirt and small pebbles clung to her sweater. Her bag had flown somewhere into the brush. Fantastic.

“Great,” she muttered. “Really graceful start.”

Then, a sound. A soft rustle. Like a step.

Hera froze.

She turned slowly, heart starting to race.

There—again.

The wolf.

He stood no more than ten feet away, silent and enormous, half-silhouetted by a patch of morning light. His chest rose and fell steadily, his eyes locked on her. Watching. Unmoving.

Hera’s lips parted, but she said nothing at first.

A wild part of her wanted to run, but her legs wouldn’t listen. And something deeper told her not to.

“You again,” she breathed.

The wolf blinked.

He took one step forward. Then another. Hera didn’t move.

Slowly, without making a sound, the wolf lowered himself down—legs folding neatly beneath him, body relaxed but alert.

It looked… like an offering.

“Are you serious?” she whispered. “You want me to… what? Get on?”

He didn’t move. Just stared at her with those unnerving gray eyes.

And—ridiculously, impossibly—she felt warmth bloom in her chest.

“Okay, then.”

Hands shaking slightly, she knelt and reached out. Her fingers brushed the thick fur along his neck. He didn’t flinch. The warmth of his body radiated into her palm.

“God, you’re warm,” she whispered.

No collar. No sign of human ownership. And yet…

She moved carefully, swinging one leg over his broad back, her weight settling tentatively. She gripped gently behind his shoulders, stunned that he didn’t toss her off or growl.

The wolf stood.

And then he walked.

---

He carried her slowly through the forest, threading between roots and brush, never once stumbling. Hera clung lightly, trying not to shift too much, aware that this moment was surreal—and yet so gentle it almost made her want to cry.

He didn’t run.

He simply walked, leading her back through the trees, retracing the trail she had lost. At one point, she leaned down slightly, pressing her forehead against the back of his neck.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered. “But I probably should be.”

The wolf said nothing.

And yet, she felt heard.

When they reached her cottage, he circled the porch once. Then, with slow, deliberate ease, he lowered himself again so she could slide off. She did, heart thudding, unsure if she should thank him—or if this was still a dream.

He walked to the edge of the tree line again. Paused.

Then vanished into the woods.

---

Hera didn’t sleep much that night, either. But it was a different kind of restlessness.

She made hot tea and sat curled on the porch steps, staring out into the woods where the wolf had disappeared. Every few minutes, she caught herself glancing over her shoulder, hoping to see a glimmer of silver between the trees.

But he didn’t come back.

Not that night.

Still, just before she went to bed, she found a single strand of silver-gray fur stuck to the porch railing. She touched it with trembling fingers. Warm still.

She brought it inside and placed it on her windowsill.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t cry herself to sleep.

She dreamed of warmth. Of a large body curled beside her. Of breath steady and slow in the dark.

She dreamed of a wolf with eyes like storms, and a heart that beat beside hers like a second rhythm.