The shed smelled of old wood and damp leaves. Moonlight fell through the cracks in the roof, washing everything in silver. Yuki's fingers hovered over the wolf's side, unsure how to stop the blood. She had helped injured animals before, but never anything like this.
His golden eyes opened slightly as if he knew she was there. Pain rippled across his muscles, but the wolf didn't move violently — only trembled.
"You have to be quiet," Yuki whispered. "The hunters… they might still be around. I can't let them find you."
The wolf let out a low whine, and she flinched. She pressed her hand against his fur again, steadying herself. "Shh… it's okay. I'm here. I won't leave you."
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes — Yuki had lost track of time. The forest outside shifted with the wind, and every creak of the shed made her heart jump. She had done everything she could: she'd cleaned the wound as best she could and wrapped it in torn strips of her shawl.
But something strange was happening.
The air had grown warmer. The shadows flickered. She felt it before she saw it: the wolf's body tensed. His breathing became uneven, shallow, like he was in pain deeper than any bullet could cause.
Yuki froze. Her heart raced. "What's happening?" she whispered.
And then it began.
Muscles bulged and twisted under his fur. His spine arched in impossible angles. She stumbled backward, clutching the wall of the shed, eyes wide.
"No… no, this isn't real…" she whispered, her voice shaking.
The wolf's fur receded, and his shape shrank. Limbs lengthened, humanizing yet still awkward. Bones cracked softly under the change. Yuki's mouth went dry. She wanted to scream but couldn't move.
And then, with a shudder, he was no longer a wolf.
A man lay on the floor. His dark hair was matted with blood, but his golden eyes, wide and blinking, were still the same. The transformation had left him exhausted, gasping for air, and trembling with pain.
Yuki wanted to run. To scream. To tell herself this was a dream. But the truth in his eyes rooted her to the spot.
He struggled to sit up, his gaze scanning her as though recognizing her for the first time.
"You…" His voice was raw, unfamiliar. Human, yet strange in its roughness. "You stayed."
Yuki swallowed hard. Her hands were still pressed against the remnants of his fur on his side. "I… I couldn't leave you," she said softly. "You were hurt. The hunters…" Her voice broke. "…I couldn't let them find you."
For a moment, he said nothing. He just stared at her, golden eyes flickering with pain, confusion, and something she couldn't yet name.
"You… helped me," he whispered, voice rough, almost disbelief in every syllable. "You shouldn't have…"
"I had to," Yuki replied, sitting on the floor beside him, close enough to touch but careful. "I… I know what it's like to be alone. To have no one who cares."
The man's gaze softened, and he tilted his head slightly. "Alone…" he murmured. "I… I am."
Her heart tightened. "Not anymore," she said quietly. And somehow, even she felt the weight of those words.
Outside, the wind moved through the broken walls of the shed, carrying the scent of pine and cold earth. The moon had risen higher, bathing them in soft silver light. In that fragile glow, a connection formed — unspoken, quiet, but undeniable.
The man shivered. Yuki instinctively wrapped her shawl around him, pressing it gently to his shoulders. His skin was warm, human, yet beneath it, she could still sense the strength, the wildness of what he had been moments before.
"I don't even know your name," she said, almost laughing nervously.
He met her gaze, golden eyes glimmering with something tender and wary. "I… don't remember."
She nodded slowly, understanding that memory might return slowly, as fragile as he was now. "Then we'll start with what matters," she said. "You're safe. That's enough for now."
And in that quiet shed, with the moonlight filtering down on them, the impossible felt real.
For the first time since leaving home, Yuki didn't feel entirely alone.
And for the first time, he let himself feel it too — a fragile, human trust.