ARTHUR
Ireland was supposed to give me something—anything.
Instead, it gave me damp air and gray skies. The silence felt like mockery.
I’d been here for days, chasing every contact and rumour whispering of wolves returning to this miserable island. What did I get? Old men in pubs lowering voices, fishermen spinning stories with each drink, locals insisting they’d seen something in the hills—something watching. They swore up and down that these weren't the black dogs, but real-life wolves. They tell tales of wolves returning to Ireland.
These were nothing but ghost stories—fairy tales, poorly disguised as intelligence.
I leaned against the cold hotel wall. Dublin’s streets hummed behind me as I dragged a hand down my face. My patience was gone, burned out on this wild goose chase—or W
