The wolf swallows its howl. The night unstitches itself from its teeth. It moves in reverse, dragging its shadow over the frostbitten ground, paws erasing its prints. The bullet slithers out of its chest. The hunter waits, death heavy in his hands. He watches the wound knit itself shut, fur smooth as ice. The heart sinks back into the ribs like a stone. The hunter walks backward into the trees, the night remains still. The moon hums. It says nothing. It says: I will purify you.