Aria did not sleep that night.
The moment the howl had threaded through her apartment, her body had frozen in a strange stillness, and yet her heart refused to stop racing. Every beat thundered in her chest like a desperate knock on a locked door. She had remained in the chair for minutes, maybe hours, she could not tell anymore, staring at the dark window as though the forest itself would lean forward and answer her unspoken questions.
Eventually, when the silence returned, she dragged herself from the armchair and paced her living room like a restless shadow. The air seemed heavier than usual, charged with something she could not name. Each creak of the floor beneath her bare feet felt amplified. She touched her temples with cold fingers, trying to steady herself, but her thoughts refused to obey.
It was just a wolf, she told herself. Wolves howled. That was their nature. The forest had always been home to wild things. There was no reason for her to tremble, no reason for her throat to feel tight as though she had swallowed the night air wrong.
But her heart knew better.
The sound had not been ordinary. It had been too raw, too full of something that belonged not to the wilderness but to the very marrow of her soul. When the howl had pierced the silence, memories had come alive inside her, crashing through the walls she had spent seven years building.
She saw Damian standing before her again, his dark hair tumbling across his forehead as he laughed at something reckless he had just done. She heard his voice, deep and smooth, teasing her for being cautious. She felt his hand, warm against hers, pulling her into the world he had always insisted was waiting for them. And beneath it all, she remembered the nights when he would disappear into the woods, returning with leaves in his hair and a glint in his eyes that she could never explain.
Her knees weakened, and she sank back into the armchair. Memories were cruel, she thought bitterly. They did not care about time or healing. They surfaced whenever they pleased, demanding attention like wounds reopening.
She pressed her hands over her face. Why now? Why after so many years of silence did the night remind her of him? The ache had never left, but she had learned to keep it quiet, to live with it like one might live with an old scar. Tonight, though, the scar felt raw again, as though the howl had torn it open.
Her lips moved around his name again, almost against her will. Damian. The syllables felt dangerous in the stillness, as if the very act of speaking them might summon something she was not ready to face.
Her heart whispered a truth she refused to accept. She felt him near.
Aria shook her head sharply. Impossible. She had been at his funeral. She had seen the casket lowered, the dirt shovelled over the grave. She had wept until her throat was raw, clutching the flowers until the stems snapped in her hands. He had been gone for seven years, and no cry in the night could change that.
Yet she could not shake the certainty that had taken root in her chest.
The hours crawled until dawn painted the sky in pale grey. Aria sat by the window once more, her cardigan pulled tight around her shoulders. She stared at the forest, searching for movement, for proof that the night had not been a cruel trick of her imagination. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, their branches whispering secrets she could not hear.
When the sun finally rose, she forced herself to move through her morning routine. She boiled water, poured it into her chipped mug, and dropped in the tea bag, watching the dark liquid bloom like smoke underwater. She sipped it slowly, hoping the warmth would ground her, but every taste only reminded her of how empty her mornings had been for years.
Work at the library was quiet, as always. The familiar smell of books and paper should have been soothing, but her mind refused to settle. She shelved volumes with trembling hands, misplacing some in her distraction. More than once, she caught herself staring out the tall windows at the line of trees in the distance, her pulse quickening as though she expected something to emerge from them.
Lila stopped by in the afternoon. Her friend carried the same cheerful energy she always did, her auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, her eyes bright with unspoken curiosity.
"You look tired," Lila said, tilting her head. "Bad dreams again?"
Aria hesitated. She could not bring herself to explain the howl, not when she barely understood what it meant to her. She forced a small smile. "Something like that."
"You should get out more," Lila pressed gently. "Come to the café with me tonight. A little noise and company might do you good."
Aria shook her head. "Not tonight. I just need rest."
Lila studied her with a mix of concern and resignation. "One day you'll say yes. Until then, I'll keep trying."
When Lila left, Aria's mask slipped. The weight of the night before pressed down on her until she could hardly breathe. She finished her shift and walked home beneath the fading light, her steps quickening the closer she drew to the edge of the forest. She hated how her eyes searched the shadows, half in fear, half in yearning.
By the time she returned to her apartment, the sky had deepened into indigo. She lit a lamp, but its glow felt too weak against the darkness pressing at her windows. She tried reading again, but the words swam before her. She could not stop listening, straining for the sound that had broken her sleep the night before.
The hours dragged. Silence wrapped around her, thick and suffocating. Every creak of the building made her heart jump. She scolded herself for her foolishness, for letting one sound unravel her composure. And yet, deep down, she wanted to hear it again. She wanted that impossible thread of connection, even if it terrified her.
Then it came.
The howl rose once more, long and low, a sound woven from both sorrow and power. It carried through the night like a voice that belonged not only to the forest but to her. Her hands trembled against the fabric of her cardigan, and her breath caught as tears threatened to blur her vision.
The memories surged stronger this time. Damian, standing at the edge of the woods, his hand outstretched. Damian, whispering promises beneath the stars. Damian, vanishing into the night as though the trees had claimed him.
Her mind screamed that it was impossible, but her heart surged with hope so fierce it hurt. Could it be? Could he truly be alive? The thought was madness, but it burned through her like fire.
She moved to the window again, pressing her palms against the glass. Her reflection stared back at her, pale and wide-eyed, but beyond it the forest shifted. A flicker of movement caught her attention, something glinting between the trees.
Her breath stilled.
Two eyes glowed in the darkness, steady and unblinking, fixed on her window. They were not the yellow of an ordinary wolf. They burned with a strange light, gold threaded with silver, both beautiful and terrifying.
She could not move. Her body locked in place as her heart pounded, torn between the urge to run and the desperate need to stay. The eyes did not blink, did not waver, only held her with a familiarity that made her throat close.
Somewhere in the depths of her soul, she knew those eyes.
Her lips parted, and for the second night in a row, his name trembled free.
Damian.
The eyes flared brighter, as though answering her.