​The day started like any other: cold, quiet, and smelling of damp earth. I was on patrol near the northern edge of the park when I found the fox cub. Its rear leg was clearly broken, and it was tucked under a root, shivering.

I knew the drill. Stabilize it, document the location, and get it to the center. It was just a job, a delivery.

​I walked into the Forest Animal Rehabilitation Center, and the chaos—the low hum of machinery, the faint smell of antiseptic and wet fur—was familiar.

I handed the cub and the paperwork over to a sharp, dark-haired woman named Natalia. She was efficient, all business, already looking bored with me.

​Then I saw her.

​She was at a workstation near the back, facing away from the main door. She was tending to a hawk, its wing bandaged, and the way she moved was what stopped me. Every movement was precise, almost liturgical.

Her shoulders were tense, a clear sign of strain, but her hands were steady, light, and deeply reverent when touching the bird. It was the focus of a person who has to manage immense internal noise.

​I’m a ranger. I read the woods, I read the animals, and I've learned to read people. That intense stillness, the way she kept her back to the world, the subtle shifts in her posture whenever a door opened—she was locked down. She was protecting something.

​I asked Fiona at the front desk a few meaningless questions about supplies and funding. I needed an excuse to stay and watch. The cub was fine in Natalia's hands, but she was what drew my attention.

​And then she moved.

​She finished with the hawk and stepped out, clearly intending to move through the hallway, and she stopped dead. She hadn't seen me until that moment.

​Her eyes snapped to mine, and the brief, terrifying look of a cornered animal flashed in them.

She was instantly defensive. She stared at me like I was a geological anomaly—an unwelcome, unexplained stone dropped into her quiet river. I could feel her analyzing me, cataloging the heterochromia, trying to place me.

​I held her gaze. I didn’t smile, didn’t move.

I saw the struggle behind her eyes, a kind of visible war between the impulse to retreat and the need to observe the "threat."

​She was an introvert, obivous  yes, but it was more than that.If you read this book from any app other than wattpad and partilipi please type adhuni in wattpad, patilipi and read the story for free. I watched the slight, barely perceptible hitch in her breathing, the tightness in her jaw, and the way her fingers flexed near the cuff of her scrub jacket. It was like watching a pressure gauge climb.

​Then, she turned to retreat, and I heard the faint thud of the paperweight.

​The sound broke the spell. Everyone looked. But she was only looking at me. And in that moment, the defenses around her eyes cracked. I saw a flicker of something raw: terror, yes, but also a profound, startling curiosity.

​I cataloged the data: Left eye green, right eye gray. Dark, expressive, and easily startled.

​Natalia's voice broke the contact, pulling my attention back to the mundane. "Mr.?"

​"Sterling," I confirmed. I listened to the cub's diagnosis, but my mind was still on her. When Natalia pointed to her—Ms. Hayes—and mentioned re-wilding, it clicked.

This woman, who couldn't stand to be in the same room with people, was the specialist in easing animals back into the wild. It was tragically perfect.

​I walked out that day with the distinct, unsettling realization that the most interesting subject in that rehabilitation center wasn't the wounded fox, but the fiercely wounded woman who worked there.

​The fox cub was my excuse. Her silence was the lock. My daily visits were going to be the calculated key. I needed to understand why the world was so terrifying to her, and I knew I couldn't do it with words.