Moonbound

I don’t remember the exact day the house started

feeling wrong. I just know it did.

After my husband died, things stayed where they were, but they didn’t

feel the same anymore. His shoes were still near the door. I didn’t move

them. Not because I couldn’t, but because it felt unnecessary. Like

moving them wouldn’t change anything, and leaving them wouldn’t bring

him back either.

Some days I felt sad. Other days I felt nothing at all, which scared me

more.

People came at first. They talked a lot. They brought food. I thanked

them and tried to look normal. When they left, I felt relieved and ashamed

at the same time. I didn’t want company, but I didn’t want to admit that

either.

At night, I still listened for him. I knew he wasn’t coming back, but my

body didn’t seem to understand that yet. I would lie there waiting for the

sound of him turning in bed or clearing his throat. When it didn’t happen,

I felt stupid for expecting it. Then I felt tired. Then I slept.

Time didn’t heal anything the way people say it does. It just kept going.

Days passed whether I wanted them to or not. I ate because I had to. I

cleaned because the house would feel worse if I didn’t. Everything felt

like maintenance. Like I was keeping something running even though it

had already stopped.

One evening, I couldn’t stay inside anymore.

Nothing dramatic happened. The walls just felt closer than usual. I kept

thinking about how quiet it was. How permanent the quiet felt. I put on

my shawl and went outside without really planning it.

I walked toward the forest because it was the only place that didn’t

remind me of him. The path was familiar. I had walked it hundreds of

times before. Still, I felt nervous. I kept turning around, like someone

might be watching me. I told myself I was being silly.

Then I tripped.

I don’t know what I caught my foot on, but I fell hard enough to scare

myself. My heart was pounding like I had done something wrong. I

crawled under a large rock nearby without thinking. It felt safer there,

even though I don’t know why.

That’s when I heard the sound.

It was soft. Weak. Not threatening at all. Just… wrong. Like something

hurt and didn’t know what to do about it.

I moved closer and saw him.

A baby wolf. Small. Shaking. One of his legs looked bad, bent in a way

that made my stomach turn. He didn’t growl. He didn’t try to bite me. He

just lay there, breathing fast, eyes open like he was waiting for something

to happen.

I stood there for a moment telling myself I shouldn’t touch him. Wolves

aren’t meant to be handled. That’s what everyone says. That’s what I’ve

always believed..

But he looked like he was dying.

I picked him up before I could change my mind.

He was lighter than I expected. Too light. His heart was beating so fast I

could feel it through my clothes. Something about that broke me. I hadn’t

felt another living thing that close to me since my husband died.

I carried him home wrapped in my shawl. I kept expecting him to struggle

or snap at me, but he didn’t. He just stayed still, pressed against me, like

he understood that I was helping him.

I didn’t name him out loud. It felt dangerous to do that. But in my head,

without really choosing it, he became my baby boy.

I hid him in the spare room at first. The room I stopped using after my

husband died. I fed him small pieces of food and watched him carefully,

waiting for him to turn wild or aggressive.

He didn’t.

When he made small crying sounds, I talked to him without realizing I was

doing it. When I cried, which happened more than I like to admit, he licked

my face like he was trying to fix something.

At night, he slept near my feet. If I moved, he moved. If I got up, he

followed me, limping quietly behind me.

I told myself this was temporary. That I was just helping him heal.

But somewhere along the way, that stopped being true.

I started waking up because of him instead of my thoughts. I started

worrying about whether he had eaten enough. Whether he was warm.

Whether he was scared.

For the first time since my husband died, something needed me.

I don’t know when love started. I just know that by the time I noticed it, it

was already there.

And I didn’t stop it.