The wolf walked. Alone in the snow. A silent shadow in white. Trees, like specters, watched his trail. He passed, solitary, strong. Lit by the winter moon. Crisp snow beneath, lonesome sky above. A forest held its breath. He stopped. His fur, silvered by cold stars. Packless yet complete. The paradox, living. Breath ghosting in frosty air, he waited. Eyes predatory yet patient, vigilant in frozen stillness. His instinct, trusted. Timing, solitary yet precise. The forest silent, the world paused. A sudden thrill, a bound, distorting the serenity. Successful hunt, a basis survival. Thus, the wolf thrives in the forest’s heart. Alone, yet never lonely. Of the pack, yet free.