Diana Morgan stared out her kitchen window, watching the rain thread down the glass like veins in a washed-out watercolor. June had arrived, but south-central Oregon hadn't noticed. Low-hanging clouds hugged the treetops, and the forest beyond her backyard blurred into a misty tapestry of greens and grays. The steady percussion of rain on the roof sounded more like a lullaby for ghosts than anything alive.
Her once-beloved garden had become a sodden grave for limp, half-drowned marigolds.
She took a sip of her tea—a home brew, one of her few luxuries—then grimaced at the bitterness. Unsweetened, steeped too long. Like everything else these days.
Fifty-four.
Divorced - four times.
Unemployed
She had been laid off nearly six months ago from the only job that had ever truly mattered to her.
And this morning, she'd finished the last packet of Ramen noodles in the pantry, and it wasn't even the good kind.
She hadn't thought it would come to this.
Her faded flannel robe clung to her like an old friend who'd overstayed their welcome—warm and familiar, but scratchy at the edges, a reminder of comfort that had slowly worn thin. She shuffled barefoot across the worn wood floor toward the counter, where the bills towered in a jagged heap—an accidental sculpture of dread. Red stamps screamed "Final Notice," but they barely registered anymore.
Her phone buzzed. She didn't check it.
Let it buzz.
Outside the window, a line of towering Douglas firs swayed gently in the morning mist. Her modest house sat on the edge of Fort Klamath—a little wooden box pressed against the wild. Once, she'd found comfort here. The whisper of the trees, the smell of damp moss, the call of distant owls—it used to ground her. Now it felt like the world had receded too far, and she'd been forgotten at the edge of it.
She passed the hallway mirror and caught her reflection. Her light brown hair, once full of golden streaks from summers spent outdoors, was now dulled and streaked with gray, tied up in a messy bun that had seen better days. Her skin, once kissed bronze by the sun, looked pale and slack. Crow's feet tugged at the corners of her eyes, and her cheeks had lost their fullness. Her blue eyes—her one vanity—were framed by faint shadows and fine lines. They had once been compared to a clear mountain lake; now they looked more like faded denim. She studied her face for a moment longer than usual, searching for the girl who used to laugh without caution, who had once believed that life would fall into place if she just worked hard enough and loved deeply. But now, that version of herself felt like a fading memory—obscured by time and disappointment. A girl who once ran wild in the woods and believed life would reward effort with joy. But she saw only echoes.
At her desk, the corkboard still held fading echoes of her old life: snapshots of her laughing with students beneath redwoods, a weathered photo of her hiking solo through Crater Lake National Park, a lanyard from a wilderness education summit in Montana. The laminated name tag was still clipped to it:
Diana Morgan – Senior Environmental Education Specialist.
She had believed in that title—and everything it stood for. She had loved that job, teaching children and adults alike to respect and protect the wild. She'd worked for nonprofits and forest services, always just getting by, always choosing purpose over profit. There had been speaking engagements once. National park conferences. A guest spot on a podcast that actually got a few thousand downloads. She wasn't famous, but she was respected in her circle. Or had been.
And before all of that—before the job, before the multiple divorces—there had been wonder. As a child she'd spent hours in the woods, building forts, watching deer, pretending to be a ranger or a wolf. Her parents and grandfather used to take her camping every summer, and whether she was married or single, she'd carried those traditions forward with her own son.
She'd always been drawn to the forest, to the wildlife. She'd especially loved wolves. There was something noble, haunting, and sacred in their presence. She collected carved figurines, old prints, and even had a weathered field guide with pages worn from childhood fascination. Wolves had symbolized freedom, intuition, and quiet strength—everything she wished she still was. Her dream, once, had been to retire, opening and running a wildlife reserve—maybe even a wolf sanctuary. A place where she could spend her days surrounded by the creatures she admired most. There had even been a fleeting thought of returning to college in her thirties, of becoming a veterinarian and dedicating herself fully to wildlife rehabilitation. But life had other plans. Bills. A child. Marriages that unwound, some quickly, some slowly. And later, the job that consumed every ounce of her energy.
She'd thought that passion would carry her to retirement, to peace, to a sense of worth. But passion didn't pay the bills, and good intentions didn't keep the roof over her head.
Her son, now grown and distant, was chasing his own life in Seattle. She remembered how, as a boy, he used to beg her to take him on night hikes through the woods, flashlight in hand, bursting with questions about every rustle in the brush. Now, even a casual call felt like a disruption to his busy life, and the space between them had become filled with polite check-ins and missed connections. They talked less and less these days. Not because of anger, but because of the quiet guilt that lives in long silences. He had his own life now, his own job, friends and bills.
She opened her laptop, not out of hope but habit. The screen flickered to life, its cold light illuminating an inbox filled with spam, rejections, and a growing sense of futility. The usual job board alerts mocked her with listings that either required degrees she didn't have or paid less than a teenager made walking dogs. Now, positions that had once sought out her expertise were now placing more value on polished degrees and fresh-out-of-school energy. It stung—not just because she was being passed over, but because she felt the weight of years spent earning experience that no longer seemed to count. So, she scrolled out of habit—another automated email from the unemployment office, another community forum post about freelance gigs for people half her age. She was about to shut the laptop when something unusual caught her eye:
Subject: URGENT - Opportunity – Confidential Placement Inquiry
She blinked. Her first thought was SPAM, and she moved to delete it. But something made her hesitate—maybe ordinary curiosity, maybe something deeper. Her mouse hovered between Delete and Open, bouncing indecisively. With a final sigh and a furrowed brow, she clicked.
Ms. Diana Morgan,
We are seeking an experienced individual for a confidential observational role involving environmental fieldwork and travel. Duration: 24 months. Locations: global. All expenses covered. Compensation: Negotiable.
If you are interested in learning more, reply CONFIRM within 48 hours. No additional information will be provided unless confidentiality is agreed upon.
This is a private, non-governmental opportunity requiring discretion and independence. Your past work has come highly recommended by Dr. Randall Adalwolf.
No company name. No signature. Just a ghostly-sounding reply address.
She leaned back, arms crossed.
"Scam," she whispered. Her logical brain reeled off the usual red flags.
But something about it felt… off in the wrong way. Or maybe the right way. Too crisp to be fake. Too specific to ignore.
"Highly recommended," she murmured aloud. "Dr. Adalwolf?" The name stirred a memory—her very first summer job as a trail guide at Crater Lake Park. She remembered him as one of the senior staff, always moving quickly, always focused. But she couldn't recall exchanging more than a polite greeting. "What unique qualifications could he have possibly seen in me?" she muttered, puzzled. "I was just a seasonal hire, a kid with a backpack and a first-aid kit."
Out of curiosity, she opened the email's metadata. The server route didn't trace back to anything familiar—encrypted, anonymized. Whoever had sent it didn't want to be found.
She checked her spam filters, ran a quick virus scan just in case. Everything came back clean.
There was nothing else in the inbox from the address. No earlier communication. No introduction.
Just this single, strange invitation.
She stared at the screen. A hush seemed to settle over the cabin. Not the silence of loneliness, but of something waiting.
Something deep in the trees. Something older than memory.
She shivered. The hairs on her arms rose. A draft, maybe. Or maybe not.
Her finger hovered over the reply button.
What else did she have to lose?
She typed:
CONFIRM
And hit send.
Far away, in a place where dawn crept silver through endless boughs, a massive white wolf stirred. She opened her amethyst eyes and lifted her muzzle to the wind.
The change had begun.
***
Diana expected a response to her email within a few days—if she got one at all. But instead, it arrived less than ten minutes later. Just two sentences:
"Your acceptance is confirmed. Please arrive at the Café Orion on 5th and Alder at 10:00 AM tomorrow for an in-person meeting to discuss the position."
She stared at the screen, rereading the message, expecting more. Instructions, a contract, a name—something. But there was nothing. No contact information, no attachments, no details about where she was going or who would be driving the car. Just that.
She almost deleted it.
***
The next morning, Diana arrived at Café Orion ten minutes early, heart hammering with a mix of anxiety and disbelief. It was a quaint little place with ivy crawling up the brick walls and a hand-lettered chalkboard offering moonflower tea and blueberry scones. The name suddenly struck her as oddly appropriate.
At precisely 10:00 AM, a man in a tailored charcoal-gray suit stepped through the café door. His presence was quiet but commanding, and he made a direct path to her table.
"Ms. Morgan?" he asked, his voice smooth and neutral.
She nodded cautiously.
He sat down and slid a black leather folder across the table. On the cover was an embossed silver emblem: a crescent moon surrounded by three stars.
"You've been selected for a highly specialized program. Two years of travel, full medical coverage, and significant compensation. All we ask for is your trust and discretion. Read carefully."
Inside the folder were documents—an NDA, international travel consent, and a sparse contract. The job description remained vague: "observational and environmental fieldwork," "no degree required," and "unique qualifications preferred."
Diana paused, her eyes narrowing at the phrase. "What exactly does that mean?" she muttered. "Unique qualifications? What unique qualifications do I have that make me suited for this?" Her brow furrowed as she glanced back at the man across from her, half-expecting an answer he hadn't yet offered.
Diana flipped through the pages until she reached the final one, then hesitated. "There's no salary listed," she said cautiously, looking up.
The man gave a faint, amused smile. "What do you think fair compensation would be?" He tapped the blank line with his pen. "What's your number?"
She shrugged. "A million a year."
He nodded, wrote $7,000,000, and slid the paper back towards her. "Plus, bonuses."
"That's...excessive."
"You'll earn it." His voice was calm, almost bored. Like he'd done this a hundred times before.
Diana narrowed her eyes. "And if I say no?"
The man met her gaze with calm certainty. "You won't."
Diana looked over the papers one last time, then picked up the silver pen and signed with a steady hand. A faint, satisfied smile tugged at the man's lips as he gathered the signed documents and returned them to the leather binder.
From his attaché case, he withdrew a second binder and offered it to her. "This contains your first assignment details, including your departure time. A driver will be at your home in the morning to collect you."
He closed the case with a soft click and gave her a final nod. "Safe travels, Ms. Morgan."
And just like that, he left. No name, no card, no number.
***
Sitting in her car in the Café parking lot, Diana thumbed through the documents in the folder. Her flight was scheduled for the following afternoon. Tucked inside were travel papers—passport, various IDs, and a printed itinerary. Her assignment details remained sparse:
Observe.
Record the moonrise and moonset.
Analyze and document animal behavior during lunar phases, observing both daytime and nighttime activities across all wildlife species. Particular emphasis should be placed on wolves—their movement patterns, vocalizations, social structures, and behavioral changes tied to the lunar cycle.
At the very back of the folder, an envelope waited, cream-colored and thick, with two handwritten words in elegant cursive across the front:
Signing Bonus
Curious and cautious, she opened it—and stared. Inside was a cashier's check, made out in her name, for $700,000.
She slowly closed the folder and started the car, her mind spinning. A job with no name, a man with no business card, and a check too large to be real—it should have sent her running. But instead of panic, a steady hum buzzed low in her chest. Like gravity pulling her forward.
Her hands trembled faintly on the steering wheel. She swallowed hard, throat dry, trying to ground herself.
Had she ever done anything this bold? Not since Ethan was born. Maybe not even before.
Despite the surreal encounter, her focus shifted to the practical—clothes, travel gear, securing the house. The reality hadn't quite set in yet, but the wheels were already in motion.
As she drove, she mentally ticked off her list—pack essentials, secure the house, and let her family know she'd be gone for a while so they wouldn't worry. Each task grounded her—small anchors in a storm of unreality.
As if her thoughts summoned him, her phone lit up with Ethan's name. She swiped her finger across the screen to answer the call, "Hey kiddo. I was just thinking about calling you."
"Hey, Mom. Everything okay? You sound a little... odd."
She glanced at the folder on the seat beside her, its weight suddenly heavier. "I'm all right," she said, though even to her ears, it lacked conviction. "Something unexpected came up. I—was offered a job."
A beat of silence. "A job? Since when? What kind of job?"
"I don't really know how to explain it. It's... unique. It's out of the blue, but it feels important."
"Is it legit? This isn't one of those weird offshore data farm gigs, is it?"
She chuckled softly. "No. I don't even know what that is. I already signed the contract. I leave tomorrow." She exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the steering wheel.
"Tomorrow? For how long?"
"Two years. Maybe more. It's all arranged."
Another pause, longer this time. "That doesn't sound like you," he said slowly. "Didn't you always tell me that if something sounds too good to be true, it usually is?"
"I know. And I did, but I can't really explain it. This just feels right—like I'm being pulled toward something that matters. I don't understand it myself. Just... trust me, okay?"
There was a long exhale. "Okay. Just... check in when you can. And maybe send proof you're not secretly joining a moon cult."
She laughed softly. "Deal."
"And take the wolf. The one I carved at summer camp."
She smiled. "He's always the first thing I pack. Wouldn't dream of leaving him behind."
"Good. He'll keep you safe."
Her grip tightened on the wheel. "I love you, Ethan."
"Love you too, Mom. Call when you land?"
"I will. Promise."
"Then... go find whatever it is you're meant to find."
Diana ended the call slowly, her hand lingering against the screen. For the first time all day, her eyes stung.
Diana ended the call with a sigh, her hand returning to the steering wheel as she continued the drive home. Her thoughts tangled in quiet loops—anticipation, disbelief, a touch of unease. Everything had changed in a matter of hours, and though it felt surreal, it was happening. She had said yes.
Back at the house, she moved on autopilot. She brought in the folder and envelope, placing them on the kitchen table before heading straight to the spare room closet where her luggage waited. The old roller suitcase she used for fieldwork was dusty, but still intact. She laid it open on the bed and began sorting clothes into piles—comfortable, practical, and weather-appropriate for unknown destinations.
Her packing was on autopilot, muscle memory guiding her hands. The motions felt oddly soothing, a flicker of control in a life that had recently unraveled. She didn't have any close neighbors, so there was no one to notify, but the silence in her house felt heavier than usual. She double-checked her gear, grabbed her backpack and duffel to finish packing, then stood still for a moment, staring at the half-zipped bag. What kind of job required secrecy, private flights, and million-dollar contracts? What "unique qualifications" could she possibly possess? The questions gnawed at the edges of her thoughts, but she pushed them aside for now.
Before heading back to her bedroom, she paused by the mantle in the living room and picked up the small wooden wolf Ethan had carved for her so many years ago. Its edges were worn smooth from years of travel, and she smiled softly as she slipped it into the outer pocket of her backpack.
"Time for another trip, little buddy," she whispered.
Moonlight grazed the mirror's edge, catching the faintest shimmer—but Diana didn't notice.
Before she zipped her bag closed, she reached for her phone again and dialed her parents. The conversation was short but filled with warmth.
"Another adventure?" her mother asked, amused. "It's been over a decade. We thought you'd retired from disappearing into the wilderness."
"So did I," Diana replied. "But this... opportunity was too unusual to ignore."
They voiced their support, though she could hear the surprise behind their words.
"We love you," her father said. "Just be careful. And check in when you can."
"I will. Thank you. I love you both."
She hung up feeling a renewed sense of gratitude. They'd always let her chase the horizon without guilt.
She took a long shower, letting the steam calm her racing mind. Then, slipping into her favorite old sleep shirt, she crawled into bed. Her thoughts swirled in the dark—anticipation, disbelief, a flicker of fear. But beneath it all was something else.
Hope.
She closed her eyes, wondering what tomorrow would bring.
Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it carried her deep into a vivid dream.
She stood beneath a canopy of towering evergreens, the forest bathed in silver moonlight. Shafts of light pierced the trees, turning the leaves to glistening mosaics. The air was cool and crisp, alive with the scent of pine and damp earth. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—long, low, and melodic. Another joined in, then another, a chorus echoing through the vast stillness.
She was barefoot, dressed in a flowing white gown that shimmered like it was woven from moonlight and stars. It clung to her in a way that felt ethereal, otherworldly. The trees around her rustled, not from the wind, but from something moving, circling just beyond sight.
She felt it more than saw it—a presence in the shadows, eyes watching her from the darkness. Not with malice, but with purpose. Curiosity. Recognition.
Glowing eyes blinked once, amethyst bright and ancient.
Then a shape emerged from the trees—a tall feminine figure draped in light and shadow, radiant yet undefined. The forest around her seemed to hold its breath. Diana couldn't make out her face, only the glow that shimmered faintly around her silhouette. The figure lifted her hand and traced a glowing crescent in the air between them. The light pulsed softly, as if alive.
A whisper traveled through the air, soft as mist and deep as memory: "You were always meant to return."
Diana's breath caught. Her feet stayed rooted, but her heart leaned forward.
And though she knew she was being watched, Diana felt no fear.
Only a strange, stirring sense of belonging.
The next morning, Diana woke with a start, blinking into the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. The dream clung to her like mist, vivid and strange. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes.
"What the hell was that?" she murmured.
The forest, the gown, the wolves, those glowing eyes—it had all felt so real. She tried to shake it off, brushing it away with a half-laugh.
"Too much thinking about that little carving," she said to the empty room.
And the words her son had said all those years ago drifted back to her.
"He's your protector, Mom. He'll keep you safe when I'm not there."
She looked toward her bag, where the wooden wolf lay nestled between carefully folded clothes. Maybe the dream had been nothing more than nostalgia mixing with nerves.
Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed.
Today, it would all begin.
She got up and began dressing, pulling on comfortable travel clothes—jeans, a soft cotton shirt, and her worn-in hiking boots. Her eyes drifted to her packed bag. She reached in, brushing her fingers over the carved wolf, then placed it in her jacket pocket without a word. Its presence was enough. She never traveled without him. It made her feel grounded—anchored. As ready as she could be. Yet, a part of her whispered that she wasn't ready at all—that whatever she was stepping into was bigger than she could imagine. But she straightened, inhaled deeply, and forced the hesitation down.
Downstairs, she fixed herself a sparce breakfast—two pieces of toast made from the heels of the bread loaf and a packet of grape jam, a leftover from her last stop at a fast-food drive-thru breakfast months ago. She poured hot water over the same tea leaves she'd used the day before, steeping what little flavor was left. With no time and a trip just hours away, she hadn't stopped for groceries on her way home.
She ate slowly, sipping the weak tea and trying to soothe the flutter of nerves in her stomach. With breakfast done, she made one final round through the house, checking again to make sure everything was locked, unplugged, and secure.
She dusted the living room, wiped down the kitchen counters, emptied the meager contents of the refrigerator, and ran a final load of laundry. As she moved from room to room, she checked windows and locked doors, making mental notes of everything she might forget. Her steps were purposeful, but a dull ache lingered in her chest—she wasn't just securing a house; she was saying goodbye to a life.
She sorted through a small box of keepsakes, her fingers pausing over a worn leather compass that once belonged to her grandfather, and a faded photograph of her and a much younger Ethan, grinning with sunburned cheeks beside a trailhead sign. She tucked both into the side pocket of her pack—small anchors from lives she'd built and loved, tokens to remind her of where she came from, even as she stepped into the great unknown.
They were mementos of a life she was about to step away from.
At the counter, she pulled out her itinerary and glanced at the details. Her flight was scheduled to depart that afternoon, giving her just enough time to get to the airport with a cushion. She checked her bags once more, zipped everything up tightly, and stood in the quiet of her living room.
This was it.
Time to go.
Just as she slung her bag over her shoulder and grabbed her duffle and small suitcase, gravel crunched in the front drive. The cab had arrived. She paused for a moment, one hand on the doorknob, letting the weight of it all settle on her chest. Was this excitement? Fear? Maybe both. One last deep breath, and she opened the door to greet the waiting driver.
The cabbie was a younger man with a friendly smile and earbuds in one ear. He greeted her by name, helped load her bags into the trunk, and soon they were off, the tires crunching softly over the gravel of her driveway, the last sound of home she would hear for two years. Diana glanced back at the house as it receded from view, a lump forming in her throat. How had it come to this—leaving behind everything familiar, everything ordinary—for a world that didn't seem quite real? For a moment, she questioned if she was chasing hope or just running from despair.
Diana sat in the back, watching her trees roll past through the window—the same old stretch of road that had always meant home. A quiet ache unfurled in her chest. She caught sight of a deer just inside the woods, still and watchful. Just as she turned her gaze forward again, she thought she saw a large white wolf standing at the edge of the forest—but when she looked back, it was gone. All of these sights were familiar. It seemed so natural, so calm, as though the world hadn't yet caught wind that something in her life was about to drastically change. Was it possible that everything looked the same when her entire world had shifted underneath her feet?
The closer they got to the airport, the more unreal—and yet inevitable—it all felt. She kept her fingers pressed lightly over the small figurine in her breast pocket, drawing reassurance from the solid, familiar shape.
She caught her reflection in the window—eyes a little tired, face set in quiet determination. She didn't look like someone about to leap into the unknown. But perhaps that was the point.
They drove in silence for several minutes, the city slowly giving way to industrial parks and service roads. As they bypassed the main airport entrance, Diana leaned forward.
"Excuse me, I think you missed the turn. The main terminal is back there."
The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror and gave a small, knowing smile. "Got special instructions, ma'am. You're scheduled at the private hangars."
Diana blinked. "Private? There must be some mistake."
"No mistake. Said your name, gave me the address. Said you'd be expecting it."
She sat back slowly, lips parting in surprise. Her fingers brushed over the figurine in her breast pocket. Private hangars? What sort of job was this?
When they finally pulled up to the private jet terminal, sleek and quiet compared to the bustling chaos of the main airport, a sleek black car idled near the curb. A uniformed attendant opened the door for her as the cab driver popped the trunk. As she took her bags from the cabbie, he gave her a nod, "Safe travels, ma'am."
"Thanks," she said, her voice steady. She handed him a tip, and stood outside the private terminal for a moment, watching the cab melt back into traffic.
Diana stepped towards the entrance, heart pounding. This wasn't just unusual—it was unbelievable.
Time to take the first step. With a deep breath and a steadied nerve, she walked up to the terminal, her heart pounding like a distant drumbeat. The wind tugged at her jacket, but she barely noticed. Somewhere inside, a voice whispered that nothing would ever be the same again.
The glass doors to the private terminal slid open with a soft hiss, revealing an eerily quiet, gleaming interior that felt more like a mausoleum disguised as luxury. The lighting was warm, but too perfect—each reflection on the polished marble floor seemed to shimmer just a beat too long. A faint scent of lavender and ozone lingered in the air, oddly sterile and soothing all at once. The temperature felt cooler inside than it should have been, like walking into the shadow of something ancient. At the center of it all stood a single receptionist behind a curved desk, dressed in an elegant black uniform without name tag or logo.
Diana hesitated. The silence pressed against her eardrums like cotton. Her footsteps made no sound on the gleaming floor.
"Ms. Diana Morgan?" the woman asked with a pleasant, almost knowing smile.
"Yes," Diana replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Right on time. Please, follow me."
No questions. No ID checks. Just that smile, and a wave toward a hallway behind frosted glass.
Diana's boots should have echoed—but didn't—as she followed the woman past tinted windows and deserted lounges. The lights hummed faintly overhead, but the sound seemed to vanish before reaching her ears. Everything felt suspended in time. Like a moment between blinks. A place untouched by coincidence or delay.
At the end of the hall, another set of glass doors parted. Inside the hangar, a jet waited beneath soft overhead lights. Sleek. Modern. Its surface a matte silver-gray that shimmered faintly, like moonlight caught in motion.
No logos. No markings. Just waiting.
The flight crew—two men and a woman in dark, minimalist uniforms—stood at the base of the stairs. They greeted her with polite nods, taking her bags and offering a hand as she stepped up into the cabin.
Inside, the plane was just as bizarre. Cream leather seats, dark wood paneling, and soft ambient lighting that seemed to adjust with her every movement. A small table held a tray with bottled water, fruit, and a folded note card bearing her name.
She settled into one of the wide seats and unfolded the note.
Relax. You'll be met upon arrival.
Arrival where? She glanced out the window. No sign of other passengers. No other aircraft. Just the hum of the engines powering up.
She was on a jet she'd never booked, heading to a place she couldn't name, on behalf of a company that—for all practical purposes—didn't even exist.
What had she just agreed to? She must have been out of her mind to sign that contract. And yet—some part of her, buried deep beneath the fear and disbelief—felt like she'd been waiting for this moment her entire life.
The growing realization settled like a stone in her chest—she was well beyond the boundaries of any normal job or trip.
As the plane began to taxi, Diana leaned back into the plush headrest, her fingers brushing over the wooden wolf tucked in her pocket.
She watched the world speed by through the window, whispering to herself that it was real—even if nothing ever would be again..