Three Wolves Came to Say Goodbye: A Story of a Woodsman’s Kindness
In the heart of a snow-covered forest on the edge of Yorkshire, a lone she-wolf appeared one bitter winter evening. The air was crisp, the ground muffled under thick snow, and the only sound was the distant snap of frozen branches. Albert Whitmore, a grizzled woodsman in his sixties, stepped out of his cottage at the faint whimper echoing through the trees. There, just beyond his garden fence, sat an emaciated wolf, her ribs showing beneath her ragged fur. She didn’t growl or bare her fangs—only watched him with eyes brimming with silent pleading.
Albert hesitated, debating whether to interfere with nature’s course. But then he turned back inside and returned with scraps of venison, frozen leftovers meant for leaner days. Gently, he placed them near the fence. The wolf didn’t approach—just dipped her head slightly, as if in thanks, before vanishing into the night with her prize.
After that, she returned often. Always alone, always silent. She’d sit in the same spot, waiting. Albert kept feeding her, though his neighbours began to mutter.
“Have you lost your mind, Albert?” scolded Margaret from next door. “That’s a wild beast you’re encouraging! What if she turns on you?”
But Albert just shrugged. He knew a hungry animal was far more dangerous than a fed one. If she wasn’t starving, she’d leave the village be.
Weeks passed. Winter deepened—blizzards, knee-high snow, scarce prey. Yet the wolf kept coming. Sometimes she’d skip a day or arrive late, but then… she simply stopped. Albert waited. One day. Two. A week. A month—nothing. The villagers sighed in relief. “Good riddance!” they said. But Albert’s heart ached. Strange as it was, he’d grown fond of her.
Then, one frostbitten evening, two months later, he heard it again—a low, familiar growl. His pulse quickened. He rushed to the door and froze.
There stood the she-wolf. But this time, she wasn’t alone. Two younger wolves lingered behind her, alert but calm. All three watched him—not with hunger, not with fear, but something almost like recognition.
Albert didn’t speak. He just stood there, the cold nipping at his cheeks, and suddenly understood: all this time, he hadn’t just fed a wolf. He’d fed her family. The meat he’d given had gone to her pups, hidden in some den deep in the woods. And now she’d brought them—not to hunt, not in fear, but… to say goodbye. Or to thank him. Who could say how animals truly think?
For a long moment, they stood there. Then the she-wolf dipped her head, just like that first night, and the three melted back into the snow-laden pines.
No one in the village ever saw them again. Albert never told the story aloud. But sometimes, staring into the woods at dusk, he’d murmur to himself:
“Farewell. And thank you too, sister of the wild.”
In those quiet words lay everything—the sorrow, the gratitude, and the quiet truth that even in nature’s harshest corners, kindness finds its way home.
