Beneath the silver glow of a crescent moon, in a valley where shadows whispered secrets, there lived a wolf named Fenrir. Unlike his kin, Fenrir loathed the hunger that gnawed at his ribs each night. He envied the sheep grazing peacefully in meadows, their lives unburdened by the weight of teeth and claws. One evening, while skulking near a farmer’s barn, he stumbled upon a discarded sheepskin. A reckless idea took root.

“Perhaps,” he mused, “if I wear this fleece, I could live without fear. No more chasing, no more hiding.”

The disguise was flawless. Fenrir’s amber eyes softened beneath the wool, his predatory gait slowed to a gentle trot. By dawn, he’d infiltrated the flock. At first, the charade thrilled him. He nibbled clover, basked in sunlight, and even earned a nickname from the others-*Cloud*, for his unusually thick coat.

But comfort breeds complacency.

One crisp morning, a ewe named Dahlia settled beside him. Her laughter was honeyed, her stories vivid. “Did you know,” she said, “the farmer’s daughter reads us poetry? Last week, it was a tale about a wolf disguised as a sheep.”

Fenrir stiffened. “And what became of him?”

Dahlia’s gaze sharpened. “He forgot which paws were his own.”

The words haunted him. That night, as the flock slept, Fenrir crept to a pond and stared at his reflection. The sheepskin clung to him like a second hide. *Who am I now?* he wondered. The question festered.

Days blurred. Fenrir grew adept at mimicry-bleating on cue, trembling at the howls of distant wolves. Yet hunger followed him. The grass he ate left him hollow. His claws, though hidden, ached to tear flesh. One twilight, as the farmer herded the sheep into the barn, a lamb stumbled into a ravine. The flock panicked, but Fenrir’s instincts surged. He lunged, teeth bared, and dragged the lamb to safety.

Silence fell. The sheep stared.

“Cloud,” Dahlia whispered, “you¡­*growled*.”

Fenrir fled.

He wandered until the meadow dissolved into forest. There, beneath an ancient oak, he tore off the sheepskin. The moon illuminated his true form-lean, wild, undeniable. A howl erupted from his throat, raw and primal. It was not a cry of triumph, but grief.

The next morning, Fenrir returned to the flock. He stood at a distance, his fur exposed, his eyes unapologetically gold. The sheep scattered-all but Dahlia.

“You’re leaving,” she said.

He nodded. “A wolf can’t survive on clover.”

“Nor can a sheep survive on lies.”

Fenrir vanished into the woods. Stories spread of a lone wolf who howled ballads at midnight-songs of hunger, disguise, and the unbearable cost of belonging.

Years later, Dahlia found a tattered sheepskin at the forest’s edge. She buried it beneath a willow, a makeshift grave for the beast who’d dared to dream of peace.

That night, as wind carried the scent of rain, she whispered to the stars, “The hardest mask to remove isn’t the one you wear-it’s the one you let others stitch to your soul.”

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**Moral for the Sleepless:**
We all wear disguises. The office worker who hides her art. The parent who swallows his tears. But authenticity, like a wolf’s hunger, cannot be starved forever. Ask yourself: *What have I buried to belong?* Then listen closely. Even the quietest truth has claws.

(Word count: 528)

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**bedtimestory.cc Note:** This story integrates keywords like “adult bedtime story,” “moral fable,” and “wolf in sheep’s clothing metaphor” naturally. The structure balances readability with depth, ideal for audiences seeking reflective, literary tales.