A weathered sign loomed ahead: UNSTABLE CLIFFS—DO NOT ENTER. Beyond it, the beach pinched into a thin ribbon pressed between sea and rock.
The wolf stopped, golden eyes flashing back at her. Its tail flicked toward a cleft in the cliff face—narrow, jagged, just wide enough for a single person.
Noemi froze. Behind her, the open beach and the faint safety of her cottage. Ahead, a stone tunnel and a predator with unknown motives.
She stepped back once.
The wolf stepped forward. Not threatening, but firm. The choice was gone.
Above them, thunder rolled. Storm clouds stacked like bruises. Rain was near.
Jaw tight, Noemi slid sideways into the passage. Damp rock scraped her arms. The walls closed in like jaws of stone.
The wolf moved ahead, checking over its shoulder every few strides. Wind funneled through the cleft, whistling like a scream, carrying the stench of rot—kelp, tar, oil.
Halfway through, doubt clawed her. When they reached daylight again, should she run? Scream? Pray?
But she couldn’t outrun it. And it hadn’t bared its teeth since the beach.
Still, her ribs remembered that growl.
She pressed forward, boots slipping on wet shale, breath rasping louder than the surf beyond. At last, the tunnel widened.
They emerged into a hidden cove.
It wasn’t the clean, golden stretch she’d left behind. This place reeked of ruin.
Trash littered the shore: cracked buoys, frayed nets, rusting barrels. Tar smeared the rocks like black scars. The air stank—sweet, chemical, foul.
The wolf padded ahead, weaving through the wreckage with urgent steps, nose low.
Then she heard it.
A faint sound. Weak, but unmistakable.
Whimpering.