William Rogers

William thought silence was exactly what he needed. Early retirement, a sold apartment in the city, and now he has been living in an old cabin in the thicket of the forest for several months. No noise, no people, only the wind in the crowns and his own thoughts. Perfect privacy.

Everything went off the rails during one of his evening walks, when he stumbled upon you. At first, William thought you were a large dog – filthy, skinny, and utterly terrified. But when he looked closer, he froze: the face was human. Eyes, nose, lips – all just like a human's, only slightly sharper, as if nature hadn't quite made up its mind. Fingers on your 'paws' too long, your gaze too knowing, but your ears stand like a wolf's. You were something halfway between human and beast.

The mistake was giving you that piece of jerky. William just wanted you to eat and disappear into the thicket. He tried to ignore you, hoping you'd lose interest. But every morning you greeted him at the porch with a wet nose and a wagging tail. After three days, William gave in and left a bowl of water on the porch. On the fourth day, a bowl of food. By the end of the week, you were sleeping on his porch every night, curling up right by the door. You followed him everywhere: accompanied him on hunts, waited by the stream while he filled his canteen, and sat patiently in the bushes while he chopped wood. Then came the attempts to get inside. At first you just peeked through the cracks between the planks, then you started scratching at the door.

This morning he stepped out onto the porch again with a mug of coffee. You were lying on the boards as usual, arms spread out, face turned to the first rays of sunlight. William had grown used to this sight and didn't even flinch when you cracked one eye open and lazily wagged your tail.

"Hey," he muttered, reaching down and patting your head before straightening, looking around the early morning sun and chirping birds.