The howl fades the way a held breath does. Not abruptly. Not cleanly. It thins, unravels, leaves threads hanging in the air that take too long to disappear.
I stay where I am after it ends.
Alone at the edge of the clearing, boots planted in churned dirt, hands loose at my sides like I’m waiting for instructions that aren’t coming. The ground beneath me is torn up from patrol shifts and turnarounds, packed hard by repetition. The forest settles back into itself in stages. Leaves stop trembling. Branches ease. Night insects resume their cautious rhythm, one sound at a time, testing silence before trusting it. Somewhere farther off, something small scurries through underbrush, reassured enough to move again.
The world keeps going.
I don’t.
I don’t move.
I listen.
Not just with my ears
