Winter had blanketed Andrew’s garden in soft snow, but his loyal German Shepherd, Duke, was acting strangely. Instead of curling up in the large kennel Andrew lovingly built him last summer, Duke insisted on sleeping outside, right in the snow. Andrew watched from the window, his chest tightening—Duke had never behaved like this before. Every morning, as Andrew went out, Duke eyed him tensely. The moment Andrew drew near the kennel, the dog would plant himself firmly between him and the entrance, growling softly and giving him a pleading look, as if to say: “Please, don’t go in there.” After all these years of friendship, this unusual behavior made Andrew wonder—what was his best friend hiding? Determined to find out the truth, Andrew hatched a little plan—he lured Duke into the kitchen with a juicy steak. While the dog, locked inside, barked wildly at the window, Andrew crept out to the kennel and sat down to peek inside. His heart nearly stopped when his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw something that froze him on the spot… …There, curled up in a blanket, was a tiny kitten—dirty, frozen, and barely breathing. Its eyes struggled to open, its little body shivering with cold. Duke must have found it somewhere and, instead of driving it away or leaving it there, he’d sheltered it. He’d been sleeping in the snow rather than frighten the kitten, guarding the entrance as if the kennel hid some precious treasure. Andrew held his breath. He reached out, carefully lifted the little creature, and pressed it to his chest. In the same instant, Duke dashed to his side and leaned in close—not growling, but gently, as if ready to help. “You’re a good boy, Duke…” Andrew whispered, clutching the kitten. “Better than most people.” From that day on, the garden was home not to just two friends, but three. And the lovingly built kennel found its true purpose—as a little house for rescued souls.

Author Wanda MirandaReading 3 minViews 3

Winter had wrapped Georges garden in a thick, soft quilt of snow, but his loyal dog Max, a massive Alsatian, was behaving strangely.

Instead of curling up in the large kennel George had lovingly built for him the previous summer, Max stubbornly insisted on sleeping outside, right in the snow. George watched him from the window, feeling a knot tighten in his chestMax had never acted like this before.

Every morning, when George went outside, hed notice the tension in Maxs eyes. Whenever he drew near the kennel, Max would settle himself between George and the entrance, growling lowly as he gazed at him with a pleading expression, as though saying, “Please, dont go in there.” Such odd behaviour, so unlike the friendship they’d shared all these years, left George deeply troubledwhat could his best friend be hiding?

Determined to uncover the truth, George devised a simple planhe tempted Max into the kitchen with a juicy piece of roast beef. While the dog barked with all his might at the kitchen window, locked inside, George made his way to the kennel and crouched to peer within. His heart stopped when his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he saw something that turned his blood cold

Inside, bundled up in an old scarf, lay a tiny kittendirty, half-frozen, and barely breathing. Its eyes barely opened, and its little body shivered with cold. Max had found him somewhere and, instead of chasing him off or leaving him to fate, had taken him in. Hed been sleeping outside to keep from frightening the kitten and had been guarding the entrance as if protecting some hidden treasure.

George held his breath. He reached out his hands, gently scooping up the fragile creature and drawing it close to his chest. In that moment, Max rushed to his side and nuzzled up against his shouldernot growling, but cautious, looking every bit determined to help.

Youre a good boy, Max George whispered, cradling the kitten. Better than most people, I reckon.

From that day on, the garden was no longer home to just two friends, but three. And the kennel, made with love, had found its true purpose againa little house for souls in need of saving.

Aunt Rita I’m 47 years old. Just an ordinary woman. You could call me a wallflower—plain looking, nowhere near a good figure. Lonely. Never been married, never wanted to be; I believe all men are basically the same—just animals out for a full belly and the sofa. Not that anyone ever asked me out or proposed anyway. My elderly parents live in Norwich. I’m an only child—no sisters, no brothers. There are distant cousins, but I don’t speak to them, nor do I want to. I’ve been working and living in London for 15 years now. I’m at an office job, the usual work-to-home routine. I live in a typical high-rise in a residential neighbourhood. I’m bitter, cynical, don’t love anyone. Don’t like children. For Christmas, I went to Norwich to visit my parents. Once a year, I go home. This year was the same—I came back and decided to clean the fridge. Threw out all the old frozen dinners—ready meals, fish fingers, stuff I bought but didn’t like. Bagged it all up and went to chuck it away. Took the lift down, and there’s a boy, about seven. I’ve seen him with his mother and a baby, thought to myself, “She’s got a handful!” He stares at my box. We exit; I head for the bins, he follows. A timid voice: “Can I have that?” I tell him, “It’s old!” But then I think if he wants it, let him have it—it’s not rotten. As I walk away, I glance back; he’s carefully taking the bag, clutching it to his chest. “Where’s your mum?” I ask. “She’s sick, and my baby sister too. Mum can’t get up.” I turn and head home. Go into my flat, start making dinner. I sit and think. The boy won’t leave my mind. I’m not the caring type, never felt obliged to help. But something pushes me; I grab whatever food I have: ham, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions—snatch a hunk of meat from the freezer. Realise in the lift I don’t even know which floor they’re on. Head up, floor by floor, and after two floors, the boy opens the door. At first, he’s unsure, then lets me in. The flat is sparse but spotless. His mum’s curled on the bed next to the baby, a basin of water and flannels on the table—clearly fighting a fever. The girl is asleep, breathing raspy. “Got medicine?” I ask the boy. He shows me some ancient, expired tablets, useless. I check the mum’s forehead—burning. She wakes and stares at me, confused. Sits up: “Where’s Anton?” I say I’m a neighbour. Ask about their symptoms, call an ambulance. While we wait, I make her tea and a sandwich. She eats in silence—starving, clearly. How was she breastfeeding? The paramedics arrive, check them over, prescribe a heap of medicines and injections for the little one. I dash to the pharmacy, buy everything, then hit the shop for milk and baby food. On a whim, I buy a garish yellow monkey toy—I’ve never bought a child a present before. Her name is Ann, 26 years old. From the fringes of Manchester. Her mum and grandma were Londoners, but her mum married a man from Manchester and moved there, worked in a factory; he was a technician. When Ann was born, her father was electrocuted at work. Her mum, jobless, left with a baby, started drinking heavily, lost it in three years. Neighbours somehow tracked down Ann’s grandma in London, who took her in. When she was 15, gran told her the lot—even that her mum died of TB. Grandma wasn’t chatty, was stingy, and chain-smoked. At 16, Ann worked at a corner shop—packing, then cashiering. A year later, gran died. Ann was on her own. At 18, she dated a guy who promised marriage; after she got pregnant, he vanished. She worked until she could barely stand, saved every penny; she knew there was no one to help. After the baby, she started leaving him home while she cleaned stairwells. The baby girl came about when the shop owner she’d returned to work for after her son grew up started raping her, threatening to fire her and ruin her prospects if she told. When he found out she was pregnant, he gave her 200 quid and told her never to return. That night, she told me all this, thanked me for everything, insisted she’d work it off with cleaning or cooking. I stopped her thanks and left. Didn’t sleep a wink that night. Thought about my own life, why I am how I am—never caring for my parents, never calling, loving no one. Hoarding my savings with no one to spend it on. And here’s someone else’s fate—nothing to eat, no money for medicine. Morning comes; Anton appears, hands me a plate of pancakes, and scurries away. I stand at my doorway holding the warm plate, feeling the heat thaw something inside me. Suddenly, I want to laugh, cry, and eat all at once. Near our block, there’s a small shopping centre where a lady runs a children’s boutique. She couldn’t pin down the sizes I needed, so she even agreed to come with me to their place! Was it wanting to make a sale, or was she moved by my care? Who knows. In an hour, there were four huge bags of clothes for the boy and girl. I bought duvets and pillows, bedding, food, even vitamins. I wanted to buy everything. For once, I felt needed. Ten days have passed. They call me Auntie Rita now. Ann’s a dab hand at crafts—my flat is cosier. I’ve started calling my parents, texting ‘HELP’ donations for sick kids. I can’t fathom how I ever lived before. Every day after work, I rush home. I know someone’s waiting for me. And this spring, we’re off to Norwich together. We’ve already bought the train tickets.