The wolf who wasn't afraid

Hugo the wolf told anyone who'd listen: "Me, I'm not afraid of anything." He said it in front of the storm, in front of the flooding river, in front of the growl of the brown bear from the north of the forest. In truth, every time, his heart raced, but he gritted his teeth and kept his head high.

One day, the pack had to cross the hanging ravine, a rickety wooden bridge over an icy torrent. Hugo went first, as always, to prove he wasn't afraid of anything. Halfway across, a plank cracked under his paw, and he froze, unable to go forward or back.

"Hugo, are you okay?" asked his little sister Lila, still at the bridge's entrance. "I'm —" Hugo started, then stopped. The whole pack was watching him. He took a deep breath and said, for the first time in his life: "I'm scared. Really scared."

Instead of laughing, Lila stepped slowly onto the bridge and held out her paw. "I'm scared too," she said. "But together, it's less scary." Step by step, together, they crossed the rickety bridge, and the whole pack followed behind, each one finally admitting their own fear out loud.

That night, Hugo understood that pretending to never be afraid hadn't made him stronger or less alone — while admitting his fear, just once, had given him a sister to lean on in the middle of the bridge. He still says he's brave, but never again that he's afraid of nothing.