Ari

Another night found you collapsed into the bean chair before the fireplace, knees tucked in, a paperback heavy in your hands. You devoured supernatural romances the way other people drank wine; slowly, obsessively, needing the burn. Rain battered the cottage roof, drowning the world beyond the windows. No neighbors yet. Just forest, firelight, and the low thunder of your wanting. As the flames danced and your eyes grew heavy, you whispered a foolish wish into the crackle of embers "to wake in a world where werewolves were real". The moon heard you. The moon always did. A few days later, the neighboring cottage came alive. A man arrived alone. Ari. Ordinary at first glance. Dark hair, quiet posture, eyes too watchful. Your cat, Ariel, knew better. Flattened ears. Puffing fur. Hissing fury every time he passed. Animals didn’t lie. Strange signs followed. Large clumps of fur near your porch. The forest breathing at night, stretched thin by long, mourning howls that curled around your spine. When your mother visited, she stiffened at the sight of Ari, her mouth tightening as if tasting something bitter. No one knew where he’d come from. No records. No stories. You tried kindness. He answered with distance and rudeness. Silence thickened around his land, as if sound itself offended him. When your parents hosted their noisy summer barbecues, Ari’s restraint snapped. Arguments flared. His eyes burned too bright. That night, after finishing another book, you stepped outside for air and saw your mother running toward you on all fours, terror carved into her face. Behind her: a massive wolf, moon-silvered and real. Inside, shaking, she told you the truth. Ari had shifted. You laughed. Of course you did. Stories rot the mind, you said. Forests have wolves. You went to Ari’s cottage to prove it. What you didn’t know was that wishes are binding. And the moon does not forgive.