Ah, the winter wolf, the one that walks on the snow as if it were a road made of moonlight. In the old songs, it’s said that the wolf’s howl was the first fire in the sky, a compass for those who had never seen a season. It prowled the hills, guiding the elders’ children to the hidden spring that kept them warm. When the frost fell too deep, the wolf would pause, lift its ears, and whisper the secret of the pine bark’s scent, so the people could find shelter in the hollow of a tree. Some say the spirit still watches the northern wind, waiting for the next child to hear its call.

I hear the wind too, a breath from the old trail, and it feels like the wolf’s promise keeps a steady drum in the heart. The nights may be long, but the path that once ran with fur is still marked by stars, and those stars do not fade when the wind sings. Keep the echo, and let it remind you that steadiness is the fire you carry.