The Wolf blinks groggily, eyelids sticky with exhaustion and confusion. His body aches, legs splayed awkwardly against dense pastry, his fur matted with syrup and butter. A growing warmth creeps beneath his paws, and every breath is filled with the sweet, cloying scent of baking crust.
"Where—what is—this?" His voice is hoarse, echoing oddly against the dough. For a moment, he wonders if this is a nightmare, the sort brought on by too many stolen pies behind a baker’s shop. But the heat is real, and the pastry is thick around his limbs.
The Wolf thrashes desperately, twisting and kicking, his movements muffled by the stifling pastry. The more he struggles, the more the crust yields only slightly before sealing tighter around his fur, trapping him. He snarls, frustration rising, and pounds at the walls with diminishing strength.
"No, no, no—this can’t be it!" The wolf’s panic grows, paws flailing, thoughts racing with images of freedom: moonlit forests, wild hunts, the wind rushing past. Each memory is swallowed by the scent of baking pie.
The Wolf sags, spent from his futile efforts, chest heaving. He feels the weight of the crust pressing closer, the world narrowing to a syrupy, fragrant tomb. The wolf’s lips curl in a bitter smile, his eyes reflecting the amber glow of the oven’s light.
"So this is how it ends—trapped in a pie, waiting for strangers to taste my regrets." His voice wavers, tinged with irony and sorrow.
The Wolf recalls his life’s choices, the risks taken for a mouthful of sweetness, the friends left behind, the rivals bested. He wonders if he might have chosen differently, run farther, lived wiser. Yet, even now, a wry pride flickers in his heart—he was always bold, never dull.
"If only I’d savored more than stolen bites," he muses. "Perhaps the pie was chasing me all along."
The Wolf breathes in the scents of cinnamon and apples, letting them fill him with a strange comfort. He smiles, a soft, resigned curve of the lips, and feels the last traces of fear ebb away. The oven’s warmth is almost soothing now.
"Let them feast," he whispers, voice fading. "Every bite will carry a piece of my story—sweet, wild, and untamed."
The Wolf leaves behind a memory, not of fear, but of flavor—his wildness baked into every crumb. The oven hums quietly, and somewhere a fork is raised, ready to taste the life he led.
"Guess I finally found my place at the table," he thinks, a bittersweet smile in the dark.
