Light, powder snow lay as a thick sheet across the walk, the road, and surrounding hills. It fell from the sky as feathers, like pieces of the great grey quilt of clouds in the sky. Such weather insulated all sound, despite the open spaces between thickly forested slopes.

It was a wonderful sensation, existing in such a place. Footsteps were muffled into little more than soft plodding. Even the cars driving by with headlights on were quickly swallowed by quiet as they shrank into the distance. The walk was lined alternately by long stretches of fence and trees, with the barest remains of previous pedestrians being erased by fresh snowfall.

Home was still several miles off, but there was time, always time, in this solitude. You learned to let it suffuse you, to flow with it, waiting for the next instant you can safely transform. Then it began again – furry, four-legged, and wild – until the longing became too much to bear. Still, you waited with necessary caution.

Such is the life of a werewolf.

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