“Where did you come from?” I asked.
His expression faltered.
“I told you before. I don’t know.”
“Think,” I said, my voice sharpening just slightly. “Before you were found. Before the injuries. What is the last clear memory you have?”
He pressed his fingers to his temples as if trying to force something forward.
“I don’t have any memories. Except...” He stopped.
“Except what?” I urged.
“There’s this dream I keep having. There was… running,” he muttered faintly. “I think. Trees. Night. And then pain. That’s it.”
Running.
Through trees.
At night.
His wolf would have known that terrain instinctively.
“Was someone chasing you?” I asked.
“Some... Wolves.” He looked like saying the name out loud hit him in some way.
“That’s not just any dream... it’s your memory fighting to come bac
