The girl holds her breath and extends one hand, slow as sunrise, palm turned upward. The fox watches her fingers for a long moment — long enough that she wonders if she has made a mistake — then steps closer, placing each small paw with deliberate care. Its nose is cold and damp against her knuckles. The moment it touches her, she feels something she cannot name: a faint hum, like a plucked string resonating deep inside her chest, as if the word she whispered has not yet finished travelling. The fox lifts its head, amber eyes level with hers. Then it opens its mouth — and breathes out a single syllable. Not a bark or a yip. Something far closer to a word.