He never came home. The lonely cottage creaked and her belly rumbled. Though the forest was wild and night had fallen, she should go looking. What if he’d been hurt hunting or lost his way?
No, he was surely at the tavern. She foraged and grew what she could, but ale was the reason her cupboards were always bare.
Then, a scratch upon the oaken door. On the slate stood a wolf, its grey head bowed. In its teeth, his hunting pack. Warily, she stretched her hand and opened the flap. Fresh venison. Stepping aside, she threw wide the door.
That's wild!
Whoa 😳 loved this!