My father and I went into the forest to pick mushrooms. Our loyal dog, Buddy, ran happily beside us. The sun shone through the trees, painting the moss in golden light. Everything felt calm, safe — like the forest itself was smiling.

Dad walked ahead with the basket, and I followed behind, humming a song I’d made up.
Then, at some point, I realized something was wrong.

Dad was gone.

I stopped, looked around — but there was no one. The path had vanished behind the trees. I called his name, once, twice, louder each time. No answer. Only the sound of leaves rustling in the wind.

And then I noticed Buddy was missing too.

Panic started to rise in my chest. I tried to retrace my steps, but everything looked the same. Every tree. Every shadow.
The sun was setting, and the light grew colder, darker. The forest no longer felt kind — it felt alive, watching.

I sat down on a fallen log and tried not to cry.
But then, from deep in the woods, I heard it — a long, low howl.

A wolf.

My blood turned to ice. I remembered what my father had once told me: “If you hear a wolf, stay still. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”
So I pressed my back against a tree and held my breath.

Something was moving in the shadows.
Slow steps. Twigs snapping.

And then — a shape burst through the bushes.

I screamed… but it was Buddy!
He came running toward me, tail wagging, his warm tongue licking the tears from my face. Relief washed over me like sunlight. I wasn’t alone anymore.

But the joy didn’t last.

Buddy suddenly stiffened. His fur bristled, his teeth bared. His gaze fixed on the darkness behind me.
I turned — and froze.

A massive gray wolf stood there, its eyes glowing like embers.
It was watching us.
Waiting.

Buddy growled.
The wolf stepped closer.
And then — chaos.

Buddy leapt first. The sounds that followed were wild and terrible — snarls, snapping jaws, the sickening crunch of teeth on bone.
I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. I could only watch, trembling, as the two shapes fought in the fading light.

And then, silence.

The wolf lay still.
Buddy was standing… barely. Blood stained his fur. He looked at me once, wagged his tail weakly — and collapsed.

“Buddy… no… please, no…” I whispered, holding his head in my lap.
His breathing slowed. Then stopped.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, crying, alone in the darkness.
But then — something strange happened.

A faint golden light flickered between the trees. It wasn’t the moon. It was warmer, softer… like the glow of an old lantern.

I stood up and followed it.

At the edge of a small clearing stood an old woman. She was tiny and hunched, her silver hair catching the light. In her hand she held the lantern.

“Come here, child,” she said softly. “Don’t be afraid.”

Her voice was calm, almost comforting. I walked closer.
She reached out and took my hand — her skin was cold as ice.

“Your friend gave his life for you,” she whispered. “But love that pure never dies. It changes… it becomes something eternal.”

She brushed her hand over my hair — and everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, I was in a hospital bed.
My mother was crying. My father held my hand.
They told me they’d found me early in the morning — unconscious on the edge of the forest.
Buddy lay beside me, motionless.

And next to him… was an old lantern.
Still burning.

No one knew where it had come from.

Years passed. I grew up. But sometimes, when I walk alone in the woods and the wind blows just right, I swear I can smell smoke and oil — and hear the faint bark of a dog in the distance.

One night, I woke up suddenly. On my windowsill sat a small lantern, glowing with the same warm light.
Beside it lay an old dog collar.

And then I knew.

Love and loyalty never really die.
They just turn into light — guiding us through the darkest nights.