“So I’ve been told,” she echoes, standing and dusting off her pants. “Come on, Piglet. Three more miles to go before we arrive.”
As we continue our trek, I glance at Hamilton again.
My ever-controlled brother is… different. He hasn’t sprouted ears or a tail like Prescott and me, but there’s a subtle shift in how he moves—more fluid, less rigid.
At one point, he pauses to examine a cluster of mushrooms, curiosity replacing his usual calculated assessment.
“Pretty incredible, isn’t it?” I say, coming alongside him.
Hamilton straightens immediately, as though caught doing something inappropriate. “It’s… unexpected,” he admits grudgingly. “The biodiversity is more extensive than the environmental impact reports suggested.”
Classic Hamilton—turning wonder into data points. But I don’t miss how his eyes linger on the forest canopy or how he inhales deeply when he thinks no one’s watching.
Prescott bounds ahead with Ruby, chattering excitedly about something technological—probably figuring out how to blendhis love of gadgets with this newfound appreciation for wilderness. His tail hasn’t stopped wagging since it sprouted.
I’m glad we came.
There’s something happening to all of us out here, away from concrete and glass and deadlines. Something I hadn’t anticipated when I designed our development plans for Wolfstone, even the new, eco-friendly version.
As we crest a particularly steep hill, the view opens up before us—rolling hills covered in vibrant green, a silver ribbon of river cutting through the valley, mountains rising majestically in the distance. It’s breathtaking.
My architect’s brain immediately starts cataloging the landscape—assessing grade changes, identifying natural building platforms, calculating optimal sun angles for energy efficiency. It’s how I’ve been trained to see the world: as a canvas awaiting human improvement.
But something else is happening, too. The longer I look, the more I see how perfectly everything already fits together. The way the river has carved its path through the valley over millennia. How the trees cluster differently based on subtle changes in elevation; the natural circulation patterns created by the contours of the land.
Nature has already designed this place with an elegance I could never match, no matter how many awards line my office. My buildings, even the “sustainable” ones, would be impositions here—foreign objects disrupting patterns established over centuries.
“This,” Ruby says softly, “is what you want to replace with condos and parking lots.”
For once, none of us has a ready answer.
Not even Hamilton.
I take a deep breath, seeing the landscape differently now—not as space to be utilized, but as something already perfect in its wild design.
The thought is as unsettling as it is beautiful.
Hamilton seems similarly affected. There’s something almost contemplative in his expression as he surveys the valley. It’s probably the closest thing to wonder I’ve ever seen on my brother’s face.
The moment is shattered when a squirrel suddenly darts across the path, making a beeline straight for Hamilton. Before any of us can react, it scales his expensive hiking pants, perches momentarily on his shoulder, stuffs what appears to be an acorn into his shirt pocket, and vanishes back into the underbrush.
Hamilton stands frozen, that fleeting wonder replaced by a look of absolute betrayal. “Did that just—”
“Happen? Yes,” Ruby confirms, fighting a smile. “Congratulations, Ham. You’ve been selected as this year’s emergency winter storage unit.”
As we follow her down the hill, I find my eyes drawn to Ruby more often than I should. There’s something different about her here—more confident, more herself. In the city, she always has an edge of defensiveness, like a wolf backed into a corner. Here, she moves with natural authority.
It’s disconcerting to realize how much I know about her—the sound of her laugh when she’s truly amused versus when she’s being polite, the small scar at the base of her spine, the way she curls inward when she sleeps; intimate details that feel out of place in this professional expedition.
And I’m not the only one watching her. Hamilton’s eyes track her movements with intensity. Even Prescott seems drawn to her, though, in a different way—like she’s a fascinating puzzle he’s trying to solve.
How did we three brothers, who once shared everything without complication, end up here—each circling this wolf in our own way?
After hours of trekking through what feels like every square inch of Wolfstone’s wilderness, we finally emerge into a small clearing. I nearly walk straight into Ruby’s back again when she stops abruptly.
There, nestled between ancient oaks and partially reclaimed by nature, stands a weathered cottage that looks like it tumbled straight out of a fairy tale—or a horror movie, depending on your perspective.
Moss creeps up its stone foundation, the wooden siding has faded to a silvery gray, and the porch sags slightly on one side like it’s tired after decades of standing watch. It’s nothing like the sleek, modern structures I typically design, but something about it makes me pause, ears perking forward with curiosity.
