In the rolling hills beyond the village, a wolf named Varun prowled.
His coat was dark as midnight.
His eyes glinted like sharp stones in sunlight.
Varun was clever and quick.
But he was lonely.
Other wolves kept their distance.
The villagers feared him.
The sheep avoided the hills.
Varun had an idea one crisp morning.
He would disguise himself.
Not with a simple cloak.
No.
He wanted to look exactly like a sheep.
He found some old wool in a barn.
He spun it carefully around his shoulders.
He covered his snout with more wool.
Even his tail was hidden beneath a fluffy mass.
He walked toward the flock.
The sheep froze.
They stared.
Then, slowly, they returned to grazing.
Varun’s heart leapt.
No fear.
No suspicion.
He could do whatever he wanted.
He moved among them carefully.
Each step is silent.
Each glance is cautious.
He pretended to nibble on grass.
The sheep whispered among themselves.
“This one is strange,” said one.
“Quiet,” said another.
Varun chuckled inwardly.
The disguise worked.
Better than he expected.
Days passed.
Varun learned the rhythm of the flock.
He learned when they drank.
When they slept.
When the shepherd rested.
And he waited.
One evening, as the sun painted the hills in gold, Varun approached the fattest sheep.
His teeth itched.
He was about to strike.
But something stopped him.
A small lamb looked at him.
Big, innocent eyes.
The wool disguise had fooled the little one.
And it started with trust.
Varun felt an unexpected twinge.
He hesitated.
He stepped back.
And in that pause, the shepherd appeared.
He had walked quietly, sensing something unusual.
“Hey!” the shepherd called.
The sheep scattered.
Varun froze.
His wool mask could not hide his shape completely.
The shepherd ran toward him.
Varun realized his clever plan had limits.
He darted into the trees.
Heart pounding.
He stopped only when he was sure he had escaped.
That night, under the moon, he reflected.
His disguise had almost worked.
But it had failed because he underestimated the world.
He thought cleverness alone could replace truth.
He thought pretending was enough.
And it almost cost him.
The next morning, Varun returned to the hills.
But he moved differently.
He stayed in the shadows.
He watched the sheep from afar.
He learned their habits without deception.
He realized that he could coexist without lying.
He could hunt smaller prey.
He could enjoy the hills.
Without pretending.
Weeks passed.
The villagers noticed that fewer sheep went missing.
The wolves no longer lurked in the open.
The shepherd praised the lambs for staying together.
Varun observed quietly.
He had learned patience.
He had learned limits.
He had learned that honesty, even in the wild, mattered.
He no longer needed a mask.
He no longer needed fear to rule his mind.
Sometimes, he would watch the lambs play.
Sometimes, he would remember the mask and smile inwardly.
The hills were safer.
The sheep grazed more peacefully.
The forest felt balanced.
Varun moved freely.
And for the first time, he felt the quiet contentment that cleverness alone could never bring.
He had discovered that wisdom includes restraint.
And that trust, even among those who fear you, cannot be won by deception.
Snow blanketed the ground.
Flowers returned.
The village thrived.
Varun thrived.
And when he looked at the flock from the hilltop, he no longer wished to be one of them.
He wished only to be a wolf who understood his place.
He knew now that masks could hide shapes.
But not intentions.
And that truth always had a way of shining through.
The hills whispered with wind and song.
The sheep bleated softly.
The river hummed over rocks.
Varun lay under the trees, watching.
He did not scheme.
He did not pretend.
He simply existed.
And that, he discovered, was enough.
Because honesty, even for a wolf, is stronger than cunning.
And life, when lived openly, is far sweeter than any trick could ever be.