MARA
The door creaks open, and I am greeted by the warm glow of light spilling into the cool night outside.
Mr. Jorge stands in the doorway, tall and slightly hunched with an air of quiet authority.
Despite the late hour, he looks composed in a worn but comfortable night robe, the fabric hugging his lean figure and wrapping up his frame.
His face is wrinkled and worn from age. His dark hair is thinning and mixed with scattered grey strands, which contrast with his sharp grey eyes.
Those eyes show a mix of tiredness and determination.
“Come in, come in,” he says with a deep and steady voice laced with the warmth of someone used to making others feel at ease.
Stepping aside. He gently takes my bag from me like a grandfather you’d trust to guide you through a storm.
My wolf ins
