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Tanner   Loren                               

    ​Atop a rocky ridge, a lone wolf paused, its fur shimmering silver in the pale glow of the moon. Its chest rose and fell slowly, muscles tensing, ears pricked to the stillness around it.

   Then, a sound broke the silence — low at first, almost hesitant, then rising in strength and clarity. The wolf’s howl poured into the night, long and haunting. It was a song of longing and solitude, a cry both mournful and proud, a voice that belonged to the wild itself.

   The moon, full and radiant, seemed to lean closer, listening. The wolf’s eyes reflected the pale light, and for a moment, the creature and the moon were entwined in a silent communion. Time seemed to pause as the call faded, leaving only the whisper of wind through the trees, and the lingering echo of a song whose melody belonged to the night.