In the silence of the wilderness, long after the world has gone to sleep, a single voice pierces the night. High upon a cliff, silhouetted against the pale glow of the full moon, a lone wolf raises its head — and howls.

But this is not a cry of hunger. Not a warning, nor a call to the pack.

It is a song of memory.

They say wolves do not cry. But tonight, the moon knows better. This haunting howl carries the ache of a loss no words can touch — a soul mourning the one who once walked beside it, whose presence once lit the forest trails and shared the hunt beneath these very stars.

Its voice does not shake with fear, but with longing. Not desperation, but devotion.

The moon, eternal witness to such sorrow and strength, listens. Quietly. As it always does. And in that stillness, the echo of grief becomes something sacred — a bond that death could not sever.

Tonight, the moon is full. And so is the heart of the wolf — not with rage or instinct, but with remembrance. 💔🌑

A howl… not to be feared, but honored.
A song… not of the wild, but of love.