The last of the storm melted slow in the morning sun, dripping from the pines like a long sigh. Snow still clung to the streets in pale banks, but here and there shingles peeked through, roofs once again remembering their old shapes. Smoke curled from chimneys. Snowmen leaned. Someone had finally put a scarf around the statue in the square, and no one knew whether it was Holt, a kid, or one of the night owls from the tavern.
It was a day for chores. A day for digging paths and clearing the solar panels. Thane’s breath made soft fog as he walked down Main Street, nodding to a handful of early risers already at work: Hank and Marta patching a fence, Gabriel lugging cables out of the radio station, Mark kneeling near a junction box in the snow, cheeks rosy and muttering cheerful profanity about “moisture-induced voltage loss.”
Then the figures appeared — first shadows, then forms.
Three humans, heads down, trudging through what had been sled-packed paths the day before. A fourth shape, smaller, was being carried — slumped over the tallest man’s back. The wind tugged at their clothes, peeling edges, rattling them like lost scarecrows.
Thane stopped mid-step. Eyes narrowed, not in suspicion but in recognition — recognition of the weary rhythm of people who’d been walking too long without hope. Not raiders. Not scouts. Survivors. And close to collapsing.
Marta saw them next. Her breath caught, just for a moment. She lifted a hand.
“Hold up. Don’t run yet.”
Gabriel stepped beside Thane, arms folded, watching the strangers close the gap into town.
The tall man dropped to his knees first. The girl slid off his back, landing awkwardly in a drift but was gently pulled upright by the woman beside him — older, with a lined face and eyes that were clear and direct. She raised a cloth as a flag. Not surrender. Not plea. Just presence.
“We saw the lights,” she said quietly, breath fogged in the cold. “We weren’t sure it was real.”
Thane took one slow step forward, arms to his sides. The rest of the pack fanned out behind him in practiced calm — Holt, Rime, Gabriel, Mark — silent, steady, visible because trust was something you prove.
“You’re in Libby,” Thane said. No challenge. Just fact.
The tall man, still on his knees, scowled at the wolves. His eyes hit Holt first — massive, flannel-wrapped, paws as big as plates. The man recoiled.
“You’ve got wolves walking around with people?” he asked, voice cracking from exhaustion and something deeper — fear, or maybe anger wearing fear’s coat for now.
Thane’s answer came slow, sure, ancient.
“We’re not walking around with people,” he said. “We’re home.”
They were taken to the old church basement for assessment. The heat was good there — gas stove still ran clean off the tank they’d salvaged months back, and the concrete walls held warmth in ways that made huddled humans sigh with gratitude.
The woman introduced herself as Sara Halliday. Biologist. Former wildlife captain. “Used to track wolves,” she said lightly to Thane. “Didn’t expect to meet them like this.”
Her niece, Mimi, sat beside her with a shivering blanket-wrapped kind of quiet. Seventeen. Eyes ringed, hair tangled. Every so often, she pressed an old cassette player to her ear — a cracked walkman. Music leaking through blown speakers. She didn’t speak much.
The tall man didn’t give a name for a long time. When he finally did, it came like something pried loose.
“Brent,” he said. Just Brent.
His gaze never left Holt.
That night, the pack gathered privately in the cabin. Snow lit by moonlight outside the windows. Sable leaned in a corner, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, arms folded — watching, calculating. Rime sat cross-legged on the floor, sharpening a blade with slow, meditative strokes. Holt lay on his stomach, tail slack but eyes troubled.
Thane stirred a pot absently, testing the broth.
Gabriel lounged by the woodstove, guitar on his lap even when he wasn’t playing. “Brent looked at Holt like Holt was gonna tear the town apart,” he said. “And Holt hasn’t torn anything apart in… what, a week?”
Holt grumbled. “Was table. Was accident.”
“Still haven’t fixed the leg,” Mark added. Then, gently, “There’s something else in him. Something old. And it’s tied to wolves.”
“Fear scratches the door,” Thane said. “Anger breaks it.”
The next day came crisp as dry paper. Blue sky stretched wide, bright enough to blind. Brent and Sara stayed close to town hall, helping sort tools in silence. Mimi met Gabriel, finally, after he noticed her old cassette player and called across the room: “You got tunes?”
She blinked, nodded, and played her favorite tape through little headphones. It was grainy — the sort of mixtape dads made for daughters in a world that no longer existed. Gabriel just nodded, respectful. “You wanna go on the radio with that later?” he asked. Mimi didn’t answer, but the ghost of a smile passed her lips.
Near midday, kids hollered in the square. Wolves sprinted. Snow packed under paws. The “snow scavenger hunt” was happening — a leftover idea from last night’s final council chat. Sable was managing the route. Holt played “treat hider” with gusto. Rime played overseer, keeping little ones from burying their mittens too deep.
Kids adored it. Wolves thrived in it. Humans watched with the same stunned fondness they’d had during the blizzard.
And then Brent saw it.
Little Tommy Westbrook — red hat, lopsided grin — had climbed onto Holt’s back, hands buried in Holt’s ruff, while Holt shuffled through the snow on all fours, gently growling and pretending to be a “snow bear.” Tommy howled. Holt howled. The sky howled.
Something inside Brent cracked like thaw ice.
He stormed toward them, drawing a knife from his belt — quick, practiced, reflex. “Get that THING away from him!” he screamed. “Wolves tear, they KILL—”
Sable moved first, then Thane — but neither made it before Holt flinched back, tail tucked, eyes wide in apology he didn’t even have words for. The kid slid off Holt’s back and into the snow, confused.
Brent shoved past. Grabbed Tommy’s coat and yanked him back. The knife flashed.
Rime stepped forward.
No snarl. No speed. Just presence.
He walked directly into Brent’s line of sight. Then — he sat down. Big paws on frozen ground. Back straight. Ears neutral. Tail still.
Brent’s eyes shook. His hand trembled. Knife quivered.
And then it fell — clattering onto the ice-crusted snow between them.
Brent didn’t back away. His knees simply… gave out.
“I buried my son,” he said — not to Rime, not to Thane, not to God or ghosts — just into the cold. “He was ten. We were tracking. Wolves came out of the trees. I— I couldn’t—”
He broke.
Winter quiet held every word.
Holt looked at Thane, tears forming at the edges of his fur — Holt, who could carry a motorcycle, felt too heavy to move.
Rime reached out his paw. Just one. Slow. Stopped a foot away.
Did not touch. Only offered.
Brent bowed his head.
Brent stayed there for a long time, kneeling in the snow with the cold brushing his lungs and the truth finally too heavy to hold alone. Nobody moved until he did — not Thane, not Sable, not Rime, not even Holt. If Brent had lashed out again, if the pain had folded back into fear, the pack would’ve reacted as one. But instead, he just… breathed. His hand found the space over his chest like he wasn’t sure his heart was still there.
When he finally stood, he didn’t look at Holt, or the kid, or the knife on the ground. He looked at Thane — and for the first time, his eyes asked a question instead of delivering a threat.
Thane nodded once. Not approval. Not absolution. Just a quiet promise: You’re still in this town. You still matter. We don’t finish on the worst moment.
Sable got the boy moving again, calm and quiet. Holt got to his feet by inches, the way gentle giants do when they’re afraid they’ll crush the wrong thing. Rime flicked his tail once, just to reassure himself that this was real — that presence had done more than teeth ever could.
Mark arrived from the edge of the square, toolbox still in hand, and looked between Brent and Thane. He didn’t ask. He just fell in behind Sara as she led Brent away from the frost and toward shelter.
Thane watched them go, arms still loose at his sides. He didn’t speak for a long time. He just let the wind blow through the gap between what happened and what still could happen.
Only once the door of the church shut behind the three survivors did Thane finally turn, catching every eye that had seen. Gabriel’s. Rime’s. Holt’s still-wet ones.
“We handle it tonight,” Thane said quietly. “Nobody carries this alone.”
The pack nodded. One by one, the square eased back into motion — not the same motion as before, but a slower, steadier one. Because the work wasn’t just digging out from storms anymore. It was digging out from each other.
That night, things moved slow. Sara held Brent’s hand in the basement room. Mimi clutched her cassette player like a lifeline. Rime went back to the cabin, sat by the fire, and sharpened nothing.
Thane found him there.
“He does not see us. Only teeth. Thinks we took his cub.” Rime said, eyes fixed on the coals.
“You sat with him,” Thane said softly.
Rime blinked once. “Pain talks. Needs ears. Wolves… know that.”
The next morning, Brent walked up to Holt by the sawmill. Sunlight sharp on the frost. Holt froze mid-step, holding a toolbox.
Brent didn’t speak at first. Just… held out the knife. Not like a threat. Not like a test. Hilt first.
Holt blinked. Massive chest rising slow.
“For a long time,” Brent said, voice low, “this was for things I didn’t want to understand. Things I thought I needed to fight.” He paused. “I’m sorry I pointed it at you.”
Holt placed his paw — not on the blade, but on Brent’s hand — and closed it back up.
“Keep,” he said. “Use right. Not wrong.”
Brent nodded — eyes wet, jaw set. He put the knife away. This time, not like armor. More like remembering.
Sara found Thane at the river. Snowmelt ran under a sheet of glass, slow and sure. She stood beside him, hands in pockets.
“You know what’s strange about all this?” she said. “Back when the world was alive, I spent my career trying to convince people wolves were worth trusting. Now I get to learn the same lesson all over again.” She smiled faintly. “Maybe I wasn’t teaching anything. Maybe I was practicing.”
Thane gave her the same look he’d given people across battle lines and firelight, when they finally started to see.
“Trust isn’t a thing you build once,” he said. “It’s a tool you sharpen.”
Mimi kept her headphones off that afternoon. Instead, Gabriel invited her onto KLMR. Together, they queued up her father’s mixtape — crackles and all.
They played the tape through the airwaves into the valley.
Soft guitar. Old world voice. Scratch of plastic. The recorded words:
“To my girl—don’t stop loving the loud things. They mean you’re alive.”
Mimi cried.
Gabriel sat beside her and played quietly along. No applause. No chatter. Just letting the ghosts sing.
Thane didn’t want Brent alone with that much pain, not after what the day had held. So he sent Rime to the church, to sit quiet watch without staring.
Rime slipped out onto the steps, leaning against a pillar, quiet as earth.
Brent joined him a while later — not scared this time. Just tired.
They stood like that in silence until Brent said, “What do you do when your head won’t let go?”
Rime’s ears flicked once. He exhaled, slow.
“Breathe. Let pass through. If stays, make room.”
Brent nodded.
A wolf and a hunter. Standing side by side, not understanding each other—and not needing to, right then.
Sara and Mimi stayed. Brent stayed, too — though he still stepped around Sable like she was fire in wolf skin.
But he said Thane’s name without shaking. And walked unarmed in the square.
And once — just once — he reached up and clapped Holt’s shoulder as he passed.
Holt didn’t look back. Just smiled into the wind.