The Wolf blinked through the rising steam, his grey fur matted and soaked. He could barely move, the heat licking at his sides, the weight of onions and carrots pressing against his ribs. All around him, the walls seemed to sweat along with him, as if the house itself delighted in his predicament.

The Wolf tried to recall how he’d gotten here. Once, he’d been a terror of the woods, swift and clever, the wind at his back and fear in his wake. Now, he floated helplessly, every inch of his body stinging, his mind racing with regret. "How could it come to this? Hunted by pigs, brought low by my own hunger," he thought.

The Wolf tried to raise his voice above the bubbling, but all that emerged was a feeble whimper. He remembered the houses—straw, then stick, then brick—and his own arrogance, thinking no creature could outwit him. The memory of the pigs’ terrified faces now haunted him, transformed into smug grins. "If only I’d chosen a different path," he mused bitterly.

The Wolf realized there was no escape. His pride had led him here, and now all he could do was face his fate with dignity. "Perhaps the stories will remember me as more than a villain," he thought, his eyes drifting closed as the warmth seeped into his bones. The scent of rosemary was oddly comforting.

Pig One, the smallest, raised his glass. "To cleverness, to family, and to new beginnings!" The others joined in, their voices swelling with pride. The wolf, though silent now, felt a strange peace. He understood at last: every story must have its ending.

The Wolf drifted into memory, his thoughts dissolving into the steamy air. The pigs, safe at last, basked in the warmth of their victory. The house of brick stood strong against the night, a silent witness to the wolf’s final thoughts—a mixture of sorrow, acceptance, and the faintest trace of hope.