Percy the Pig crouched behind a sagging barrel, his pink snout twitching with anticipation. He peered out at the edge of the orchard, where the tall grasses quivered as if something—someone—lurking just beyond. The air shimmered with the promise of mischief, and Percy licked his lips, determined to finally outwit his old adversary.
Percy tiptoed forward, every muscle tensed in concentration. He circled a thicket, certain he was silent, though his hooves crunched loudly on fallen apples. Suddenly, Wendell the Wolf emerged from the foliage, tall and lean, his fur silvered with age and wisdom.
"Gotcha at last, Wendell!"
"So you have, Percy. My, what a clever pig you've become," Wendell replied, his voice calm, almost amused.
Wendell raised his paws, making no move to escape. Percy blinked, surprised by the wolf’s lack of resistance. For a moment, they stood in silence, illuminated by moonlight, the only sound the distant hoot of an owl.
"You aren't going to run?"
"No, Percy. I suppose I’m tired of running," said Wendell, his eyes reflecting the soft light, glimmering with a strange acceptance.
Percy bustled about, gathering herbs and rolling out pastry for his infamous wolf pie. Wendell sat quietly at the table, paws folded, watching the pig’s clumsy preparations. There was no sign of fear or regret—only a tired, gentle patience.
"Any last request, Wendell?"
"Just make it tasty, Percy. And sing one of your old barnyard songs while you cook. I always liked those," Wendell replied, a faint smile curling his lips.
As Percy slid the pie into the oven, Wendell closed his eyes, content to listen to the pig’s soft singing. There was an unusual peace in the kitchen, woven from years of rivalry and a mutual, unspoken understanding. The wolf’s fate was sealed, but he accepted it as one might accept the turning of the seasons.
Percy took the first bite, savoring the flavors, but his eyes lingered on the empty chair across from him. The kitchen was quiet, save for the ticking of the clock and the gentle sigh of the night wind. Though he had finally outwitted the wolf, Percy could not help but feel the heaviness of victory—a strange mix of satisfaction and sorrow, as the world outside continued its eternal, indifferent cycle.
