It was a tattered piece of my own thermal glove, the one I had lost while hacking at the ice that first day. It had been neatly placed on a high branch, well above the flood line.
The wolves hadn’t just saved me; they had been watching me for months, keeping track of the human who had broken the rules for them. They had returned my gear as a final sign of closure. I realized that day that kindness isn’t a human invention. It’s an ancient frequency, one that even the most feared predators can hear if the heart is loud enough.
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Viktor Valentinovich never hunted a wolf again. He spent the rest of his years as a protector, knowing that in the deep taiga, he was never truly alone.
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