The wolf lay under the oak. Ancient and gnarled, the tree shielded him. Sunlight danced around him. He was alone. Isolated, but not lonely. Solitude whispered wisdom. The wind his chronographer, rustling leaves tattered by time. It was quiet, he observed. Solitary, yet aware. Patient for the opportune moment. His amber eyes flickered. Once, twice. The rustle, an echoing drum. A calculated risk. Without rush, he rose. The oak’s shade fell away. A chance. Kairos awakening his spirit. Overhead, the sun peaked. A warm stroke on his fur. To the wind, he gave a howl. A tribute to time, to sonder. A lone wolf finding his moment.