The fence is the only place that doesnt drive me away. Sometimes I feel like Ive grown attached
People passed bysome in a hurry, some slow, but almost no one stopped.
“Ive stopped counting the days. When each one begins and ends the same, the numbers lose all meaning. Here, by this rusted fence, morning only differs from night by how the light falls. The rain and wind have become as familiar as hunger and silence. And yet I havent left. This fence is the only place that doesnt drive me away. Sometimes I feel as though Ive clung to it as I once did to a home. But maybe Im still waiting for what? I dont know.”
She sat on the narrow strip of dirt between the wobbling fence and the pavement. Her fur was matted and dull, the mud beneath her paws mixing with rainwater as it dripped from the rusted bars. People walked pastsome rushing, others amblingbut hardly anyone spared her more than a glance. If they did, it was fleeting, their eyes tired or indifferent. To them, she was just another stray, left to the mercy of the streets.
But she remembered another world. One where mornings began with the scent of toast. A little kitchen where shed weave between legs, trying to reach the table. The warmth of the stove in winter, the laughter of her mistress when she tripped over her. A gentle hand that would stroke her head just because.
Then, slowly, things changed. First, it was just cold looks. Then a bowl left empty more and more often. Shouts, harsh words, shoves. Until one day, she found herself on the wrong side of the doorstep. No goodbye. No explanation. Just the click of a door locking behind her.
“I thought it was a mistake. I thought theyd call me back any minute. But the door never opened again.”
Life on the street was a cruel teacher, its lessons learned through bruises and scrapes. She learned to dodge sticks, sidestep thrown stones, scavenge crumbs outside shops. Sometimes she managed to steal a crust of bread or beg a bone from a rare kind stranger. Even then, whenever she locked eyes with a passerby, shed think, *Maybe youll be the one to say, Come on home.*
The day was cold and damp. Rain had fallen since dawn, the wind tearing leaves from the trees. She sat curled tight, the chill seeping into her bones. Then she heard footsteps. A woman in an old coat moved slowly, as if unsure of her own path. When she saw her, she stopped.
“Oh, love who did this to you?” she whispered.
*You look at me differently. Not like the others who walk past. Your eyes are warm, like hers were. The woman I once called mine.*
She sank to her knees but didnt reach out right away. Instead, she pulled a piece of bread and sausage from her bag.
“Here, eat.”
Hesitant, she stepped forward, as if the ground might vanish beneath her. She took the food, chewing slowly, savouring every bite as if it might disappear. The woman didnt rush her. She just sat there, watching.
“Come on,” she said softly, almost a murmur. “Its warm inside. No onell hurt you again.”
*Youre calling me But can I trust it? What if tomorrow the door shuts again?*
Still, she followed. The gate creaked as they stepped into the little yard. The peeling fence, the apple tree stripped bare. The house smelled of stew and fresh breada scent so sharp in her memory that she froze on the threshold. The woman laid out an old blanket, poured clean water, and set down a bowl of warm porridge.
“This is your home now,” she said, gently touching her head.
That night, she barely slept. She lay there, listening to the womans footsteps inside, the creak of floorboards, the clatter of dishes. More than once, the woman peeked in, adjusting the blanket, whispering:
“Youre home now, understand?”
*Home How afraid I was Id never hear that word again.*
The days passed differently now. She waited by the door, bringing her faded old ball. She curled up beside her while she drank tea, listening to her voice even if she didnt understand the words. Her fur grew soft again, her eyes clear.
Sometimes, when they passed that old fence, shed pause. Staring at nothing, as if her old self still sat theresoaked, starving, lost. The woman would rest a hand on her neck and say:
“Come on, lets go home.”
*Yes now I know where it is.*
