The old woman left the paralyzed grandfather in the forest, but what the wolf did shocked everyone.

The wheels of the cart knocked on the roots, digging into the soft forest earth. Each jolt reverberated through Yefim’s body with a dull, aching pain that seemed to come not from his paralyzed limbs, but from his heart itself.

He lay on the old, musty-smelling hay and looked up at the wisps of clouds floating through the pine crowns. The air was thick, filled with the scent of pine needles, damp moss, and something else, restless and wild. Marfa walked ahead, her back hunched, her strong, calloused hands gripping the shafts tightly.

She did not turn around, did not say a word, and this silence was more terrible than any abuse. Yefim remembered her differently, remembered how many years ago her laughter rang out in this very forest, when they were still young and gathered mushrooms. He remembered the warmth of her palm in his, when he, then still a strong and powerful carpenter, took her to show him the log house he had built.

Where did it all go? The stroke divided his life into before and after. Before is the smell of shavings in the workshop, the excited barking of a dog in the pre-dawn haze, the respectful hum of voices at a village gathering. After is humiliating helplessness, the smell of urine and bedsores, and his wife’s eyes full of dull, old hatred.

He tried to say something, to make some kind of sound, to ask where they were going, but only a stifled wheeze came out of his throat. Marfa shuddered as if from a blow, and stopped. The cart froze in the deep shadow of a spreading old oak tree, whose branches, like bony hands, reached toward the sky.

The woman walked around the cart and looked into her husband’s face. There was no pity or doubt in her eyes, only a scorched desert of fatigue and anger. She grabbed the edge of the cart and tipped it over with force.

Efim fell heavily to the ground, hitting his shoulder on a protruding root. Pain shot through his body, but he couldn’t even cry out. He lay on his side, like a discarded sack, looking up at her.

Marfa shook her hands, straightened her headscarf, and without looking at him, said words as cold and sharp as shards of ice. “You’re going to die here.” “You old geezer, I’m tired of cleaning up after you.”

She turned and, without looking back, walked away. Her silhouette quickly dissolved into the green twilight of the forest. Efim was left alone.

He heard the creaking of a cart receding, then the twittering of a bird, and then there was a deafening silence, broken only by the roar of blood in his ears and the desperate, soundless cry of his soul. He looked after her, into the emptiness where she had gone, and in his clear, still living eyes two questions froze. – For what? And why? But there was no answer.

Only the forest, indifferent and eternal, was preparing to receive him into its cold embrace. Before we continue, let us know what city you are from. We want to know where our videos are watched from.

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The sun was slowly setting, painting the sky in crimson and gold tones. The shadows of the trees stretched out, merging into a solid dark mass. For Yefim, time stood still.

He lay under the oak tree, and every minute stretched into an eternity filled with pain and the awareness of the inevitable end. Memories flooded in a turbid stream, uninvited and vivid. Here he was, young and strong, felling a pine tree with only an axe, and the shavings flew, smelling of resin and life.

Here he is carrying a shot boar on his shoulders, and the whole village comes out to watch, and Grigory, then still a boy, looks at him with delight. And here he is holding his newborn daughter in his arms, the only one, who was taken from him and Marfa by illness in infancy. Maybe something broke in Marfa then? He never blamed her, accepting grief as a part of life, like a harsh winter that you just have to survive.

He worked for two, built, hunted, tried to fill the emptiness in the house with his labor, his strength. And she silently ossified in soul, and her love, like a small stream in a drought, dried up, leaving only the cracked earth of bitterness. When he was broken by a blow, he hoped that their common misfortune would bring them closer.

How wrong he was? The illness was the last straw for her. He turned from a support into a burden, a living reminder of all her unfulfilled hopes and hard lot. At first she looked after him silently, gritting her teeth, then she began to grumble, and the last months turned into hell.

“When will you stop suffering?” she threw at him along with a bowl of cold porridge. “You’re staring, idol, all you can do is stare.” He heard everything, understood everything, and endured.

He could not understand only one thing: how it was possible to take out and leave to die the one with whom he had shared bread and bed for half a century. Death did not frighten him. As a hunter, he knew it by sight, he knew that it was a natural outcome

Such a death was frightening – alone, humiliated, betrayed by the closest people. With the onset of dusk, the forest came to life, some small animals rustled in the bushes, a feline hooted somewhere in the distance. Yefim knew these sounds, but now they did not calm, but carried a threat.

He felt the cold creeping under his tattered shirt, freezing his already unruly body. He closed his eyes, preparing for them to come soon – the wolves. He could smell them, the forest was their home, and he was easy, defenseless prey.

A long, mournful howl could be heard in the distance. One voice, then another. The pack, they had already smelled it, the smell of weakness and imminent death.

Yefim didn’t open his eyes, he just waited. Let it be so. It would be faster than dying of cold, better sharp teeth than slowly fading away in mud and helplessness.

Night fell on the forest, finally like a thick inky blanket. The cold became piercing, it penetrated to the very bones, forcing the body to tremble finely and uncontrollably. Yefim lay, listening to the darkness.

The howling he had heard earlier died away, replaced by an uneasy silence. He knew what it meant. They were close.

The pack follows him, silent as shadows. He braces himself. Mentally says goodbye to the sun, to the sky, to the smell of home that he will never smell again.

Suddenly, a branch snapped in the bushes nearby. The sound was heavy, solid. Not a mouse, not a fox, but a large animal.

Yefim held his breath. His heart, the only muscle that still obeyed him fully, began to pound in his chest like a captured bird. Two phosphorescent lights appeared from the darkness.

Eyes. They looked at him intently, studying him. Then a powerful figure slowly emerged from the darkness.

It was a wolf. Huge, seasoned, with a broad chest and powerful paws. The moonlight, breaking through the foliage, silvered his thick fur, especially on the back of his neck and sides.

Gray-haired. A lone wolf. Efim knew such people.

Old, experienced leaders, driven out of the pack by younger and stronger rivals. Or those who left on their own, unwilling to submit to the new laws. They were the most dangerous.

Smart, ruthless, surviving alone. The old man froze, looking into the beast’s eyes. He did not see in them the hungry fury he expected

He sniffed the air, studying the smells. The smell of old age, illness, despair. But also that old smell of the forest, smoke, gunpowder that had soaked into Yefim’s clothes over the long years of hunting.

Efim did not move. He knew the main rule of communication with a wild animal – do not show fear. Although what kind of fear could a person who had already resigned himself to death have? He simply looked.

A man and a wolf. Two old, broken creatures who met in a night forest. One was paralyzed by illness and betrayed by people.

Another one was driven out by his relatives and wounded by hunters. On the wolf’s skin, under the moonlight, Efim saw an old, healed scar, a trace of a trap or a bullet. The wolf finished its round and stopped right in front of Efim’s face.

He lowered his huge head and sniffed his cheek. His breath was warm, smelling of forest and raw meat. Yefim did not flinch.

He simply looked into those intelligent yellow eyes, and suddenly the incredible happened. The wolf sighed heavily, like a man, and, tucking his paws under himself, lay down on the ground next to Yefim. He lay so close that the old man felt the warmth emanating from his powerful body.

He wasn’t going to attack. He was standing guard. The gray wolf outcast hadn’t come to kill, but to guard another outcast, left to die.

And in this night silence, under the shade of the old helpless oak, the man for the first time in many months felt not fear and loneliness, but a strange, almost forgotten feeling of security. With the first rays of dawn, timid and cold, Efim woke up from oblivion. The night passed in a strange half-sleep.

He would fall into a heavy sleep, filled with fragments of the past, then come to his senses, feeling a warm living body next to him. The wolf had not left. He was still lying there, curled up in a ball, and his even breathing was the only sound that broke the morning silence.

The old man felt a painful thirst. His throat was dry, his lips were cracked. He tried to swallow, but there was a lump in his throat.

The wolf, as if sensing his suffering, raised his head and looked at him with his piercing yellow eyes. Then he stood up, stretched his entire powerful body and lightly poked Yefim in the cheek with his wet nose. The old man let out a weak groan.

The wolf poked him again more insistently, then took a few steps to the side and turned around, looking at the man. His gaze was meaningful and demanding. He came up again, pushed Yefim with his muzzle again and again moved away, pointing in the direction.

Efim understood. Not far away in the lowland there should have been a forest stream. He remembered it.

The wolf showed him where the water was, but how to get there. He was motionless. The beast, seeing that the man was not moving, came close, pressed himself against his back and began to push

Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, he moved the helpless body along the damp earth, the moss and last year’s leaves. It was titanic work. Yefim felt the wolf’s muscles tense, how he pressed his paws into the ground.

He couldn’t help, he could only not interfere. After a few agonizing minutes they reached their destination. The slope of a ravine, at the bottom of which water gurgled.

The wolf came down, scooped up a mouthful of water and, returning, let the drops flow right onto Yefim’s lips. That wasn’t enough. Then the beast came down again and began to dig the ground with its paws at the very edge of the water, creating a small puddle.

Then he pushed the old man again until his head was directly above the small spring. Efim, with the last of his strength, bowed his head and fell to the cool, clear water. He drank for a long time, greedily feeling how life returned to his withered body.

Having drunk, he fell back on the ground, exhausted. The wolf sat nearby and watched, breathing heavily, he saved him from thirst. But hunger was already making itself known.

His empty stomach was cramping. Yefim thought that the wolf would now go hunting, but after a short rest, he rose again and disappeared into the forest thicket. The old man thought that he had gone forever.

Gratitude and a new bitter feeling of loneliness fought in his soul. But half an hour later the wolf returned. In his teeth he carried a piece of meat that was not bloody, but something else.

He came up and carefully placed several wild, wrinkled forest apples at Yefim’s head. He must have found an old, abandoned apple tree at the edge of the forest. They were sour, hard, but for Yefim they were a feast.

He couldn’t take them, but the wolf, realizing this, rolled one apple right to his hand with his nose. His fingers, barely obeying him, managed to close on the cold side of the fruit. Yefim brought the apple to his mouth and bit into it with his teeth.

The sour juice filled the mouth, and it was the taste of life. The day dragged on slowly. The sun rose.

Above him, rays of light broke through the foliage, drawing bizarre patterns on the ground. Yefim lay, recovering from the night’s ordeal. The wolf did not leave him for a single step.

He lay at a distance, in the shadows, but his attentive gaze was constantly directed at the man. He dozed, but his ears were keenly alert to every rustle. By midday, the forest was filled with the usual daytime sounds – birds singing, insects buzzing, leaves rustling in the wind.

It seemed to Yefim that he began to hear more keenly, to feel more subtly. He could distinguish the knocking of a woodpecker somewhere on an old pine tree, the squeak of a mouse in the roots of the oak tree under which he lay. He and his silent guardian became part of this forest, one with it.

Suddenly the wolf raised his head. His ears stood up, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He growled quietly, deep in his throat, looking deep into the thicket

Efim also felt alarm. The air changed, became heavier. The cracking of branches was heard.

Loud, careless. Someone big and strong was pushing through the undergrowth. A minute later, he appeared from behind the thick hazel bushes – a bear.

The master of the forest. A large brown male. He walked, lazily waddling from paw to paw and sniffing something on the ground.

His small beady eyes settled on the motionless figure of the man. The bear froze, sniffing the air. The smell of blood, disease and helplessness was a clear invitation to easy prey.

He slowly moved towards Yefim. The old man’s insides went cold. He didn’t have a single chance against such a beast.

It was the end, for sure now. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the clawed paw descend upon him. But then a furious, deafening roar rang out.

The gray wolf jumped to his feet and with one leap found himself between Yefim and the bear. He was almost half the size of the forest giant, but there was not a shadow of fear in his posture. He stood with his front paws spread wide, his fangs bared, and his whole body turned into a tense lump of rage and courage.

The bear stopped a few steps away, surprised by such audacity. He rose up on his hind legs, towering over the wolf, and let out a menacing roar that seemed to shake the trees. He expected the wolf to get scared and run away, leaving him with the prey.

But Gray did not retreat. He responded with a low, menacing growl, not taking his burning eyes off the bear. It was a duel of looks, a duel of wills.

An old, lonely wolf challenged the master of the taiga, defending a helpless man. The bear shifted from paw to paw, clearly hesitating to attack. He was not hungry enough to engage in a fight with such a desperate opponent.

The risk of serious injury was too great. He roared again, more as a warning than a threat. He dropped awkwardly to all fours, turned around, and, breaking bushes, wandered away, deep into the forest.

The wolf continued to watch him for a long time, not relaxing, until the crackling of branches died away in the distance. Only then did he lower his head, shake himself, and approach Yefim again. He nuzzled his motionless hand, as if checking if everything was okay.

Efim opened his eyes. He saw everything. He saw this incredible battle of characters, the wild beast that people considered a ruthless killer had just risked his life for him.

There were tears in the old man’s eyes, the first tears not of pain and despair, but of shock and gratitude. He could not move his hand to stroke his savior, but he looked at him. And in that look was everything that he could not express in words, and the wolf seemed to understand everything.

He lay down next to her again, resting his big head on his paws and closing his eyes, but his ears were still on the choku, and in the village, meanwhile, the patronal feast was beginning. In the morning, smoke began to blow from the stoves, the smell of pies filled the air, women in elegant kerchiefs scurried around the yards, men gathered at the well, discussing the latest news. But Grigory, Yefim’s neighbor, was not up to the feast, some kind of anxiety had been gnawing at him since the morning.

He hadn’t seen Yefim for over a day. Usually, in good weather, Marfa would roll him out onto the porch, and the old man would sit there for hours, looking out at the street. Grigory would always come up and exchange a few words.

Efim answered with difficulty, but his eyes always shone with joy from communication. And today the porch was empty. Grigory approached their hut.

The door was ajar. He knocked. Silence.

He pushed the door and entered. The house was tidy, even too clean, somehow unlived in. On the table stood a jug of milk and a loaf of bread.

Marfa was sitting on the bench, staring at one point. She looked strange, distant and at the same time tense. “Hello, Marfa!” said Grigory.

– Where is Efim? I can’t see him. Marfa slowly turned her head towards him. Her face looked like a mask

“He died,” she answered dully. “He suffered last night, may the kingdom of heaven be his.” Grigory’s heart sank into his heels.

– How did he die? When? Why are you silent? You didn’t tell people. – Help? After all, he needs to be buried properly. – And I already, – Martha answered just as evenly, without blinking, – dug him in behind the garden.

I didn’t want to make a fuss for people on a holiday. He was quiet and left quietly. No need to disturb anyone.

Grigory was taken aback. Something in her words, in her frightening calm, was wrong, false. To bury her husband behind the vegetable garden, like a dog, without a priest, without… people? Efim, whom the whole village respected.

It was unthinkable. “Are you out of your mind, Martha?” he frowned. “How so?” “Behind the garden.”

Well, show me… the grave. “There’s nothing to see there,” she snapped, and for the first time there was an angry note in her voice. She said she buried him, so that’s how it is.

Go and celebrate, Grigoriy, don’t disturb my grief. She turned away, making it clear that the conversation was over. Grigoriy left the hut, feeling how everything inside him was growing cold from a terrible suspicion.

He walked around the house, looked behind the garden. The ground was untouched. No fresh grave.

And then he remembered. Yesterday evening, when it was already getting dark, he saw Marfa pushing a cart towards the forest. He was surprised then, why she needed it at night, looking into the forest.

But he didn’t pay attention. And now all the pieces of the puzzle fit together into a terrible picture. She didn’t bury him.

She took him out into the forest. Alive. To certain death.

The thought made the hair on his head stand on end. He rushed towards the men who were still standing by the well. “Men and trouble!” he cried, catching his breath with difficulty.

– Yefim is gone. Marfa says he died and she buried him behind the garden. But she’s lying.

Yesterday I saw her taking him to the forest. Alive. In a cart.

The men fell silent. Their cheerful faces became serious. They looked at each other.

Everyone knew Marfa’s harsh and evil nature. Everyone knew how she treated her sick husband. And everyone understood that Grigory’s words could be the terrible truth.

— Into the forest? — Stepan Stocky-Blacksmith asked again. — Alone? — An old sick man. — Yes, — Grigory confirmed.

– She left him there, I’m sure. For the wolves. We have to find him.

Maybe he’s still alive. The festive mood vanished in an instant. Instead of songs and laughter, an anxious silence hung over the village.

Without saying a word, the men began to disperse to their homes. For guns, axes and ropes. They were not going to a celebration, but to search.

In search of a man who could possibly still be saved from a terrible fate. The forest greeted the search party with wary silence. About ten men led by Grigory walked in a chain, carefully examining every thicket, every lowland.

They shouted, called “Efi and Im”, “Uncle, Efi and Im, answer.” But in response they only got an echo, resounding between the trunks of the centuries-old pines. Grigory walked ahead.

His heart beat in time with his steps. He blamed himself for not stopping Marfa yesterday, for not asking where she was going. Now every lost minute could be fatal.

They were walking along an old logging road, the same one he assumed Martha had used to carry her terrible burden. The tracks of the cart were barely visible on the dry ground, but Grigory’s experienced eye could discern them. “This way,” he said, pointing in the direction.

She walked into the very wilderness to the damn ravine. The men looked at each other gloomily. The places here were wild, untrodden.

The wolves, about whom terrible rumors were circulating in the village, felt like they were the rightful masters here. The chances of finding Yefim alive were becoming less and less. They had been searching the forest for over two hours

The tension was growing. Someone had already begun to say in a low voice that all this was in vain, that the old man, if he had ever been here, had long since vanished into thin air. But Grigori stubbornly walked forward.

He couldn’t believe that Efim, who had taught him how to set snares and read tracks, a man who seemed to be part of this forest, would die so ingloriously. Suddenly one of the men, a young guy named Fyodor, stopped and raised his hand. “Quiet, listen!” Everyone froze, listening.

A strange sound could be heard through the rustling of the leaves. Low, drawn-out, like a growl. “Wolf!” someone whispered.

“Close!” The men gripped their guns and rifles tighter. Grigory gestured for everyone to move forward, but carefully, without making noise. They slowly moved toward the sound, stepping from branch to branch.

The growling became louder and more furious. After walking a few dozen meters, they came to a small clearing, in the center of which grew a mighty old oak tree. And what they saw made them freeze in place in mute amazement.

On the ground, leaning against the roots of an oak tree, lay Efim. He was pale, thin, but he was alive. His eyes were open, and he was looking at them.

And next to him, covering him with his body, stood a huge gray “wolf”. The beast bared his mouth, revealing terrible yellow fangs and growled dully, not taking his burning eyes off the people. The fur on the back of his neck stood on end.

He was ready to fight, ready to defend his find to his last breath. The men were taken aback. The picture was so unreal that it resembled a dream.

A man left for dead, and a wolf guarding him. “What the hell!” Stepan breathed. “He’s alive!” Grigory whispered, not believing his eyes.

– Alive! He took a step forward, but the wolf immediately stepped towards him. Its growl turned into a furious bark. The people instinctively retreated.

No one dared to come closer. They found themselves at a dead end. There he was, Yefim, alive, a few steps away.

But the fierce guard wouldn’t let them get to him. “We need to shoot the beast!” someone suggested from behind. “Be quiet, you fool!” Grigory interrupted him.

– Look! He’s not touching him, he’s protecting him. And then Efim, gathering his remaining strength, with difficulty parted his dry lips. A barely audible hoarse whisper escaped from his throat, which, however, in the ensuing silence sounded like a clap of thunder.

– Yours! He looked at Grigory. And in his gaze there was a plea and an order at the same time. And the wolf, hearing the man’s voice, fell silent.

He stopped growling, slowly lowered his head and looked at Yefim, and then back at the people. He didn’t move away, but his posture no longer had the same aggression. It was as if he was waiting.

Grigori, realizing that this was their chance, slowly took a step forward with his empty hands extended. Then another. The wolf watched his every move, but did not move.

Grigory came close and knelt down next to Yefim. “Uncle Yefim! Alive! Lord, you’re alive!” He touched the old man’s hand. It was cold, but alive.

The men standing behind couldn’t say a word. They looked from the exhausted old man to the huge wolf, who sat and calmly watched what was happening, and couldn’t comprehend what they saw. “How did he survive?” whispered Fyodor.

“A wolf!” Stepan answered, and there was superstitious amazement in his voice. Had he really fed him? While several men were carefully making a semblance of a stretcher out of branches and jackets, Grigory sat next to Yefim, trying to give him water from a flask. The old man drank in small, greedy sips, and a spark of life slowly flared up in his eyes.

The wolf sat a few steps away, no longer showing aggression, but not leaving either. He watched everything with some kind of wise, detached attentiveness, as if assessing people’s intentions. His presence created an invisible barrier around the old man that no one dared to break.

When the stretcher was ready, Yefim was carefully placed on it. He groaned in pain, but even at that moment his gaze was fixed on the wolf. It seemed he was afraid that his savior would disappear.

– Grigory, seeing this, said quietly, addressing the beast rather than the people. – Don’t be afraid, Uncle Efim, we won’t touch him. Let him follow us if he wants.

When the men lifted the stretcher, the wolf actually stood up and followed, keeping a short distance. He walked not like a wild animal, but like a faithful dog seeing off his master. The return journey to the village seemed like an eternity

News travels faster than people. When the procession appeared at the edge of the forest, almost the entire village was already waiting for them. The women gasped and crossed themselves, looking at Yefim’s exhausted face and, with horror and curiosity, at the huge wolf walking behind.

Marfa was also standing in the crowd. Seeing her husband alive, she turned pale as a sheet. Fear flashed in her eyes, and then animal panic.

She realized that everything had been revealed. Turning around, she tried to slip around the corner of the hut and hide, but her path was blocked by the stocky Stepan Kuznets. His face was darker than a cloud.

“Where are you going, you murderer?” he rumbled, grabbing her by the shoulder with an iron grip. Marfa fluttered in his arms like a captured bird. “Let go! It’s none of your business to let go, I say.”

– Now he’s ours! – Grigory intervened, bringing the stretcher. – Look, Martha, look at your work. You abandoned him to his death, and the beast-forest wolf found more human in him than you, wife.

The crowd buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Curses and angry cries rained down on Marfa. She was dragged out into the middle of the street, and stood surrounded by yesterday’s neighbors, whose faces were now distorted with anger and contempt.

“What have you done, you ugly thing?” one of the women screamed. “To prison, to the forest.” Under a hail of accusations and threats, Marfa broke down.

She fell to her knees, covering her face with her hands and shaking in silent sobs. Through her sobs she began to mumble, confusedly, incoherently, pouring out all her accumulated anger and fatigue. He became a greater burden to me.

There was more. Every day the same. No light, no rest.

I didn’t want it, I just wanted it to be over. Her confession didn’t elicit any sympathy. On the contrary, it only added fuel to the fire.

People saw before them not an unhappy, exhausted woman, but a traitor who had broken the most important law, the law of mercy. The trial was short and harsh, like village life itself. No one was going to hand her over to the authorities.

The village had its own unwritten laws. “Get out,” said the oldest resident of the village, Grandfather Matvey, leaning on his stick, “get out of our village, and let our eyes never see you again. Go wherever you want.

No one here will give you bread or water. We forbid you to even come near Efim’s hut. Go, and let your sin go with you.”

Marfa was released. She rose from her knees, looked around the crowd with a hunted gaze, and, hunched over, wandered away along the road leading out of the village to nowhere. No one looked after her.

All attention was focused on Yefim, who was already being carried into his house, and on the gray wolf, who, having reached the porch, lay down in his new place, as if he had always lived there. Yefim’s hut was filled with smells that it had not known for many months. The bitter aroma of wormwood, the sweetish scent of linden blossom, the tart smell of oak bark. It was Arina, the village healer, who was casting a spell over the old man.

She arrived as soon as he was brought in, silent, stern, with a canvas bag full of medicinal herbs slung over her shoulder. Arina was a woman of few words, but her hands knew their business. She washed Yefim with warm decoctions, rubbed his motionless limbs with fragrant ointments, gave him a hot infusion to drink, which seemed to breathe a bit of warmth and strength into him.

“His body is cold,” she said to Grigory, who had not left his friend’s bed. “Marfa’s malice chilled him, and the forest fear finished him off. Now he needs to be warmed up – both body and soul.”

She worked slowly, with some ritual concentration. And the whole village helped. Women came in turns to light the stove, brought fresh broth, clean linen.

The men chopped wood for the whole winter. Yefim’s misfortune and his miraculous rescue united the people, reminding them that they were one community, one family, and in the yard on the porch lay a gray wolf. The first few days they were afraid of him

Children ran around Yefim’s hut, and women, going out into the street, crossed themselves in fear. But the wolf did not show any aggression. He did not growl at anyone, did not pay attention to the barking dogs.

He simply lay there and waited. Sometimes he would raise his head and listen to the sounds coming from the house. It seemed he was monitoring his charge’s condition from a distance, just by smell and the slightest rustle.

Grigoriy brought him a bowl of food every day, sometimes the remains of the soup, sometimes bones. At first the wolf did not touch the food, but then, apparently realizing that it was an offering and not bait, he began to eat. Gradually the village got used to its new, unusual inhabitant.

They stopped fearing him. They looked at him with superstitious respect, almost with awe. They saw him not just as a beast, but as some kind of higher messenger, a living embodiment of justice and devotion.

The children were no longer afraid to play nearby, and the men, passing by, nodded to him as an equal. Several weeks passed, Efim was slowly recovering. Arina continued her treatment, and the care of the neighbors warmed him better than any fire.

One morning, when Grigori was changing his bandages, Efim looked closely at his left hand, lying on the blanket like a lifeless whip. He looked at it for a long time, intently, as if sending it a silent command. And suddenly his fingers trembled slightly.

Grigory froze. – Uncle Efim! You… You moved! Efim again strained all his will, and the finger, one finger, slowly, with incredible effort, bent. Beads of sweat appeared on the old man’s forehead, but victory shone in his eyes.

It was the first movement, the first step on a long road to healing. In the evening, when the news spread through the village, people gathered at Yefim’s hut. They spoke in whispers, but there was jubilation in their voices.

“Our Yefim is rising!” they said. “It’s all the wolf. It was his wolfish devotion that pulled him out of the other world.”

He gave him his power in no other way. And, looking at the gray beast, peacefully dozing on the porch, no one doubted it. Time passed.

Summer gave way to golden autumn, and then to the first frosts. Life in the village went on as usual, but something new appeared in it, its own legend, which was told by the stove on long evenings, the legend of old man Yefim and his gray wolf. Every day for Yefim was a small battle and a small victory.

After the first movement of his finger came the second, then he was able to clench his palm into a fist. Arina did not leave him, every day bringing new decoctions and ointments, but the main medicine was the will of Efim himself, fueled by the silent support of his four-legged friend. The wolf now lived in the yard permanently.

Grigory knocked together a spacious kennel for him, insulated it with hay, but the wolf preferred to sleep on the open porch, even in the frost, as if he were keeping his permanent watch. He became Yefim’s shadow. When the old man was able to sit in bed for the first time, the wolf went to the window and, standing on his hind legs, looked inside, meeting his gaze.

There was more to this silent dialogue than any words. It was the communication of two souls, connected by an invisible thread. By the beginning of winter, Efim, with Grigoriy’s help, was able to take the first step.

His legs were weak, like a child’s, they trembled and wobbled, but he stood. He stood on his own two feet. That day, the whole village seemed to hold its breath.

When Grigory led him out onto the porch, Efim, leaning on his neighbor’s shoulder, took a few steps through the creaking snow. The wolf immediately stood up and came up to him, poking his wet nose into his hand. Efim lowered his trembling, but already living hand onto his head and for the first time in a long time stroked the thick, hard fur.

“Thank you, friend,” he whispered. And these were his first clear words since his illness. The wolf whined quietly, as if understanding him

From that day on, they walked together every day. First, just a few steps around the yard, then to the well, then to the outskirts. Efim, leaning on a strong stick that Grigoriy had cut out for him, and the wolf walking next to him, became an integral part of the village landscape.

The old man was learning to live anew, and the wolf patiently accompanied him along the way. He was his support, his protector, his silent companion. Sometimes Yefim would sit on the porch, and the wolf would lay his heavy head on his lap.

The old man was sorting through his fur, looking into the distance and thinking about something. Maybe he was remembering his past life, or maybe he was thinking about that terrible night in the forest, which, paradoxically, did not kill him. But gave him a second birth and the most loyal friend imaginable.

The village men, seeing this picture, nodded respectfully. They no longer saw in Yefim a feeble cripple. They saw a man who had been through hell and returned, a man who had not been broken by illness or betrayal.

They saw a strength of spirit that was stronger than physical weakness. Next to him, they saw living proof that mercy and devotion know no bounds and do not depend on who you are – a man or an animal. A year passed, a long year that contained despair, hope, and daily hard work.

Winter gave way to spring, spring to hot summer, and now autumn has painted the forest crimson and gold again. Yefim has changed beyond recognition. He still relied on a stick when walking, but his gait has become firm and confident.

The gray in his beard seemed to have lightened, and his eyes, which had once expressed only pain and helplessness, now shone with calm wisdom and quiet joy. He could speak again, though not as quickly as before. His voice was hoarse, but firm.

He became again the Yefim respected by the whole village, a wise adviser to whom people came for help. He could no longer do carpentry, but his hands could now make simple toys for the village children or repair fishing gear. He sat on the porch of his hut, working with a knife on wood, and at his feet lay the gray wolf.

The beast had also aged over the year. His fur had become more grey, and his movements had become more measured and calm. He was no longer a wild forest predator.

He was a friend, a companion, a shadow. He followed Yefim around, slept at his door, watched him as he entered the house. Their bond became so strong and obvious that no one could imagine one without the other.

They were like two trunks of one tree, fused at the roots. Sometimes they went into the forest together. Not to hunt, no, Yefim never picked up a gun again.

They were just walking. The old man showed the wolf the place where he had once set traps, where his hunting lodges had been. He talked to him as if he were a human, telling him stories from his past life.

And the wolf walked next to him, listened to his voice, inhaled familiar smells and seemed to understand every word. It was their world, understandable only to the two of them. A world in which man and beast found in each other what their kind could not give them – unconditional loyalty and understanding without words.

In the village they said that Yefim now understood the language of animals and birds. And looking at how he communicated with his wolf, people readily believed it. He became a part of nature, just like his faithful companion

At first she tried to find her in the neighboring villages, but her bad reputation ran ahead of her. The story of the wife who abandoned her sick husband to be devoured spread like a wolf throughout the area. People shied away from her as if she had the plague.

No one wanted to give her either work or shelter. Her face, once simply stern, was now drawn and blackened by grief and deprivation. Her eyes, in which the fire of anger had once burned, were now extinguished and expressed only huntedness and eternal fear.

She lived on handouts, sleeping in abandoned barns and haystacks. In the summer it was still bearable, but with the onset of cold weather her life turned into a daily struggle for survival. She became wild, fearful and silent, avoiding the people who had once been her world.

Her only refuge was the forest. The same forest where she had once left her husband to die. Now it had become her home and her prison.

She learned to find edible roots and berries, learned to hide from bad weather. But the forest was not kind to her. It was full of dangers, and every night she fell asleep in fear, listening to every rustle.

One day, late in the fall, when she was wandering more often in search of at least some food, she came to a clearing and froze. In front of her, blocking the path, stood a pack of wolves, six or seven seasoned predators. They looked at her with their yellow, unblinking eyes.

Marfa froze, cold with horror. She knew it was the end. She was weak, exhausted, and had nowhere to run

She just stood there, waiting for the inevitable punishment, her eyes closed. The wolves didn’t move, they just watched. There was no hungry rage or aggression in their gaze.

There was only a cold, distant curiosity, as if they were looking at nothing. The leader of the pack, a large dark wolf, stepped forward, sniffed the air, turned his head, and, making a low guttural sound, turned and led the pack away. They walked around her like a stone in the road and disappeared silently into the forest.

Marfa opened her eyes. She was alone, untouched. And at that moment she understood the most terrible truth.

She had already been punished. Her loneliness, her outcast, her empty, scorched soul were a punishment worse than any death. Even the beasts of prey sensed this emptiness in her and did not want to stain their fangs with it.

She was so broken and insignificant that she was of no interest even to the hungry pack. She sank to the ground and cried for the first time in a long time. But these were not tears of remorse, these were tears of despair.

She was condemned to a life worse than death. And the forest, which had witnessed her crime and her punishment, silently kept this secret.