“I never once liked my grandmother. I used to wish she would stop hurting me. I was a bad student. My mother, lost in her second marriage, sent me to live with her. One day, I ran away and got lost in the concrete forest, until I found myself in the desert on the outskirts of the city. There, I starved. And died.
The wolf laughs, pulling the page from her hand. He crunches it into a ball and tosses it into the basket.
“Layla, enough of the darkness.”
The woman cackles, licking her fingers. The girl smiles.
“Okay, I’ll make it less of a nightmare.”
“Please do,” says the wolf.
“Let’s say your grandmother—your guardian—was always off travelling, leaving you alone for long stretches. Then your mother came and took you to her husband’s home. He was a little too affectionate and—”
The girl cuts him short.
“You have such a vivid imagination,” she says, “let’s just say I was afraid I wouldn’t finish my homework, so I wandered the streets—then I met a very elegant wolf in a green necktie that reminded me of gardens. He took me to our house, filled with home- cooked meals, and started finishing my homework for me.”
She turns to the woman and continues:
“If it hadn’t been for his wife, a brilliant cook, I’d have perished.”
The woman laughs as she unties her apron.
“What a story, imagine yourself in a green tie, dear.”
A knock at the door, the wolf and his wife turn. The girl walks over, still reviewing the manuscript in her hand. She turns the key and opens the door. Standing there is a child, his mouth stretched wide open, pointing into it silently. She hesitates, unsettled, then shuts the door. The wolf asks: “Won’t you let him in?”
“I don’t want to think about him. He’s just a short monologue.”
“You could swallow him.”
“You know I wouldn’t.”
The woman cut in, speaking to the girl:
“He seems sweet. Maybe he can help you.”
“His breath stinks unbearably,” Layla says, bluntly. “And he’d only make me sad. Let’s move on.
“Let’s say my grandmother was a wealthy, paranoid, miserly woman. She hired guards from a certified security company, then one day, hoping to cut costs, she posted an ad to find cheaper protection. The men she hired turned against her when she kept delaying their pay. Eventually, they killed her. I believe their leader was called . . . the Wolf.”
Another knock at the door. Layla doesn’t get up. She ignores it. She hears the wolf, who is still inspecting his long nails, say, “I don’t like this story.”
“I cast you as a strong commander—you’ll see.”
The woman laughs: “Layla’s arrogant wolf.”
The knocking grows louder. The woman hops down from her bar stool and, with a wave of her hand, signals for them to continue. She wipes her hand on the kitchen apron and walks to the door. She opens it and finds a small girl in a red cape.
“We’re still waiting,” the girl says. The woman looks past her to the outside. There are countless girls of various ages, all wearing red capes. She smiles.
“Alright. But she’s still busy.”
“We’re tired of—“
The wolf shouts from inside:
“If I wasn’t on a diet, I’d have eaten you.”
“Come and see how many of us there are!” The girl replies. “Every time she conjures us in an attempt to tell a story, she leaves us to pile up, unfinished. You could eat one of us, by the way.”
“What?”
“Yes. One of us is a Layla who never stops talking. She’s incredibly annoying.”
The woman cuts in, laughing, and says:
“Wait a moment longer—we’ll be done soon. Maybe I’ll swallow the irritating one.”
The woman shuts the door on their protests and returns inside, where she finds the girl writing. The wolf is reading over her shoulder, grumbling. She knows her husband, kind, yes, but exacting. He’ll settle for nothing less than the best. She approaches the girl and whispers.
“I think you’re tired.”
Layla looks up at her, unsure.
“It’s all right. Take a plate of mūsh—I’ll pour over it some of the daqqūs iṣbār I’ve been heating. You’ll like it. Rest a little. Then come back quickly.”
Layla walks over and opens the door. The little girls crowd around her, urging her to hurry and finish. She shuts the door behind her.
The woman turns to her husband. She murmurs, “What is it? You seem upset.”
“Time is passing,” he says, “and she still hasn’t finished the story.”
“Don’t worry about that”, the woman says.
“She’s not a child anymore.”
“It’s all right—give her time.”
“How long will she keep refusing to face what happened?”
“She will, one day. Believe me.”
They tidy the room, gathering the scattered pages from the floor. They place them into the already overflowing basket. A few sheets drift out the window—they’ll collect them later.
They sit at the table. She watches his wolfish features slowly recede until the human lines of his face return. She remembers that faraway day when Layla—his late brother’s daughter, just ten years old—came to him for help. That was the moment he became her wolf: the one who saved her from neglect and her stepfather’s wandering hands, and encircled her in tenderness.
They raise her with care. She grows up. And in time, they are gone. Still, Layla carries their encouragement with her—through every writing project—for relief, for healing, and for love.
