“Mom, I had the dream again.”

The words tumbled out of me before I could stop them. I was standing in the kitchen, clutching a chipped mug of tea like it was the only thing keeping me anchored. The steam curled against my face, but the warmth did nothing to settle the chill that had been clinging to me since I woke up.

My mother froze mid-motion, the knife in her hand hovering over the cutting board where she’d been slicing apples. Her back stiffened, just for a second, before she forced a smile and turned toward me.

“The wolf one?” she asked, her tone carefully light.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. The wolf one.”

It had been the same for weeks now. The same endless forest, dark and wild, the smell of pine sharp in my lungs. A silver moon hanging impossibly large above me, flooding everything in cold light. And the wolves—always the wolves—eyes glowing, teeth bared, circling me like shadows with breath.

But I never ran. That was the strangest part. Fear should have paralyzed me, but instead, there was this pull, like something inside me leaned toward them, aching to understand.

Only this time, the dream had been sharper. Louder. The howls had rattled in my chest as if my own voice wanted to join them.

Mom set the knife down, wiped her hands on her apron, and leaned against the counter. She was trying to look casual, but I knew her too well. The lines around her eyes tightened whenever she was hiding something.

“You need to stop thinking about them, Elara,” she said softly. “Dreams are just dreams.”

I frowned. “No, they’re not. Not these. They feel… real.”

Her gaze flickered, just for a moment, and I caught it—the hesitation. Like she wanted to say more but swallowed it back down.

“Promise me something,” she said instead, stepping closer. Her hands, warm and familiar, cupped my face. “Promise me you won’t go near the woods. Not alone. Not ever.”

I blinked. That wasn’t what I expected. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just promise me.”

Her voice was sharp now, edged with fear that startled me.

I pulled back slightly, searching her face. “Mom… what do you know?”

For a heartbeat, I swore I saw something flicker in her eyes—guilt, sorrow, something heavy. But then it was gone, buried under her practiced calm.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “Just… trust me, Elara. The woods aren’t safe. They never have been.”

I wanted to push. To demand answers. But something in her tone warned me against it. So I nodded, though my chest ached with frustration.

“Fine. I won’t.”

Her shoulders sagged in relief, but the air between us stayed heavy, filled with words neither of us dared to speak.

Later, in my room, I sat by the window, staring at the tree line that marked the beginning of the forest. The moon hung above it, pale and watchful, and for the first time, I felt it staring back.

I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering though the night was warm.

Dreams were supposed to fade when you woke.

So why did it feel like mine were only beginning?

I curled up tighter on the window seat, resting my chin on my knees as the night air drifted in. The moon stared down at me, heavy and silver, and I couldn’t shake the way it seemed bigger than usual—as if it had crept closer while I wasn’t paying attention.

I closed my eyes, and for a split second I was back in the dream.

Branches clawed at the sky like skeletal hands. The forest floor glowed faintly under the moon, every shadow trembling like it might leap free.

The wolves moved in silence, their eyes glinting in colors no ordinary animal should have—amber, crimson, molten silver. They circled me, their paws soundless against the leaves.

But it wasn’t their teeth I feared. It was the pull. Something inside me leaned toward them, stretching like a thread about to snap.

The largest of them—a towering beast with fur the color of smoke—stopped and looked at me. Not through me. At me.

And then, as though the sound came from my own throat, I heard a howl. Long, low, and aching.

That was when I always woke.

When I opened my eyes again, the world was bright, sunlight spilling across my quilt. But the unease lingered.

I padded downstairs to find Mom already at the table, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. She smiled at me, but it was too thin.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

“Not really,” I admitted, grabbing a piece of toast.

Her gaze flicked toward the window, then back to me. “Remember what I said, Elara. No woods.”

It was the sharpness in her tone that made me bite back my reply. Instead, I nodded. But inside, my frustration only grew. Why was she so afraid of me going there? Why did she look like the word woods itself could bite her?

That evening, as I helped Mom clear the dishes, I tried again.

“Mom… you really don’t know anything about the dreams?”

Her hands stilled for the briefest moment before she forced herself to keep drying the plates. “No, Elara. I don’t. Some things… some things are better left alone.”

I frowned. “What does that even mean?”

She set the plate down and turned to me, her eyes suddenly fierce. “It means you need to let this go. No matter what you feel. No matter what you dream.”

Her grip tightened on my shoulders, and for the first time, I saw real fear in her eyes. Not worry. Not protectiveness. Fear.

It shook me.