Blackfeather Woods She's Never Gonna Sing Them No More

Early evening 62°F

There was beauty there, in her eyes. The grace of her step and delight in her sing-song voice, her risibility that made her laugh at every absurdity in life: it was the version of perfection he remembered. She pressed her plump body against him. When he exhaled, a gratitude filled him with joy. He closed his eyes, brushing his snout on her warm fur.
When he opened them, she was gone. Taikon was left with a chill in his bones that forced a shiver. The sun had only just given way to a pleasant twilight during his slumber. A pink and orange colour coated the sky. His smile faded. He wiped the drool from his lip with a wrist and stretched with a yawn as he stood. For a long time, a mixed relationship with sleep had kept Taikon from enjoying even the most warm dreams. When he woke, he was always reminded of the things he lacked, the things he longed for, and the things he had lost. He felt much colder than the given temperature, the trees about him giving off a fresh, moist air. His joints ached. The tireless movement over the past week had given his paws sores despite the thick callouses from lifelong mistreatment.
A deep malaise took the wolf. He took a few tender steps forward, but couldn't continue. He stared at the ground in front of him, blinked a few times, and let out a deep, long sigh that did not give him any comfort. The white male must have looked quite awkward standing in the forest, but he was no stranger to loneliness or the hold on motivation it could have.