My little companion

01

« I promise I won't be out long, » I try to convince my grandmother as she interlocks loops of wool that somehow produce a blanket. We do not need any more, but I watch her as she knits like a child learning to speak, wondering how string and words come together so flawlessly and gain meaning. She rolls her eyes at me and continues to rock back and forth in her old, wooden rocking chair-one that my grandfather built before he passed-like some image of perfection. The creaking noises crawl up my back and into my ears. My grandfather had a knack for woodwork and was often found working outside, though I was too young to remember the sight of it.

The memory of him is more like an echo, fading with time. My grandmother tells stories about him sometimes, usually when the fire is low and the room feels like it's shrinking around us. I listen carefully, piecing together his face from the words she speaks and the worn photographs we keep in the hallway. Even though I can't remember his voice, I feel him in the way the floorboards groan beneath my feet, in the sharp corners of the furniture he carved by hand, and in the strength my grandmother carries like a second skin.

I inch closer to her as if she forgot I had asked a question.

My grandmother and I are different; there are two sides to us. One side is human, and the other is beastly. This animalistic half has been with me since birth without a choice. I had no say in the matter as it remains entirely genetic. Like my grandmother, I have the ability to turn, to shift into something wild, a creature coated with thick, rich fur and built with sharp, threatening teeth. A wolf. Specifically a werewolf, wer meaning man, which is silly because I am clearly not a man.

Some days, I wonder why it has to be this way. Why the moon calls to us like a mother summoning her children. Why our bones must break and reform just to show our true selves. And why, even when I am in my human skin, I feel the pull of the wilderness thrumming just beneath the surface.

My grandmother and I are not the only werewolves in existence; in actuality, there are hundreds of our kind scattered around the world. I was born into a pack, though I do not remember much about those. It is a vague memory, as at the time I had other things to worry about, other problems to distract me. Though in the pack, I lived with my mother and father, and in the beginning, all was well, that I remember. The laughs and memories resurface now and then to torment me.

After an attack on the pack's land, they sent me away to live with my grandmother. It is for safety, they told me, yet I have not seen them since. My grandmother has taken care of me from then until now, raising me for over a decade, and for all these years the only reason I have is that of an attack. Details were not given to me, even after asking grandmother. She does not seem to know much either.

Sometimes, when she thinks I'm asleep, I catch her whispering prayers under her breath, clutching an old locket that used to belong to my mother. I've never seen what's inside. She never lets it out of her sight.

« Grandma? Can I go? » I call to her like a distant voice. She seems to be somewhere else.

She sighs and sets down her knitting needles, the only ones she has ever used. There are a few scratches in the wood, but they are not impaired enough to make her toss them. « Fine, but be back before dark, or at least before the canopy matches the sky, dear. »

The canopy-that's what she calls the thick cluster of trees that wraps around the edge of our property like a fence made of living wood. When the sun begins to set and the sky burns orange and gold, the tops of the trees mirror it. That's her signal. Her warning.

I slip on my coat, one that I usually wear when the weather is on the cooler side. « I'll be back, » I call to her before fleeing out the door and into the crisp autumn breeze. I suck in a deep breath of the relaxing aroma. It smells like fallen leaves, damp dirt, and my freedom. If freedom had a scent, it would surely smell like this.

The trees greet me like old friends, their trunks familiar and welcoming. The leaves crunch under my boots as I follow the trail that weaves through the forest. I don't always know where I'm going when I leave the cabin, but that's the point. It's about feeling like I have a choice-even if the rest of my life is governed by things I can't control.

As I walk, I let my thoughts wander the same way my feet do. I think about my parents and wonder if they're still alive. If they remember me. If they miss me. The thought makes something sharp twist in my stomach. Over the years, I've learned not to ask too many questions-because most of the time, the answers hurt more than the silence.

A sudden rustling in the underbrush pulls me from my thoughts. I freeze. Every muscle in my body goes still, honed by instinct. The wind shifts, brushing against my skin, and I take a slow breath, scenting the air like I was taught.