In the days when the Moon still hid behind the clouds, afraid to shine, the nights were cold and lonely. The stars blinked with doubt, and the forests held their breath.
But Wolf was not afraid of the dark.
Each night, he climbed the highest ridge, raised his head to the sky, and howled.
Not in anger.
Not in sorrow.
But in longing.
“Come back,” he called, “We remember you.”
The Moon, curious, peeked through the clouds. She heard Wolf’s song—wild yet gentle, full of memory, full of love. It stirred something ancient within her.
And so, slowly, she began to rise.
Each night, Wolf sang. And each night, Moon grew bolder—until finally, she glowed full and bright, watching over the land once more.
The people rejoiced. Light returned. But they never forgot who had brought it back.
Even now, when the Moon is high and silver, the people say:
“Listen. The Wolf is still singing. He sings not for himself, but for all of us who need the light.”
