This fence is the only place that doesnt shoo me away. Sometimes I feel like Ive grown attached to it
People walked pastsome in a hurry, others dawdling, but hardly anyone spared a glance.
“Ive stopped counting the days. When every one starts and ends the same, numbers lose their meaning. Here, by this rusty fence, morning only differs from evening in how the light falls. Rain and wind have become as familiar as hunger and silence. And yet, I havent left. This fence is the only place that doesnt chase me off. Sometimes I think Ive clung to it like I once did to a home. But maybe Im still waiting for what? I dont know.”
He sat on the narrow strip of dirt between the wobbly fence and the pavement. His fur was matted and dull, the mud beneath his paws mixing with rainwater as drizzle dripped from the rusted bars. People passed bysome brisk, some slow, but almost no one stopped. If they looked at all, it was just a glance, weary or indifferent. To them, he was just another stray.
But he remembered another world. A world where mornings began with the smell of toast. A tiny kitchen where hed wiggle underfoot, trying to reach the table. The warmth of the radiator in winter, and the laughter of his mistress when he tripped her up. The soft hand that would absently ruffle his head.
Things changed slowly. First, just cold glances. Then a bowl left empty more often. Shouts, harsh words, a shove. And then, one day, he found himself on the wrong side of the door. No goodbye, no explanation. Just a click of the latch, and he was outside.
“I thought it was a mistake. I thought theyd call me back. But the door never opened.”
Life on the street was a harsh teacher, where lessons came with bruises and scrapes. He learned to dodge sticks, avoid stones, and scavenge crumbs outside shops. Sometimes hed snatch a slice of bread or beg a bone from a rare kind soul. But even then, whenever he met a passerbys gaze, hed hope: *Maybe youre the one wholl say, “Come on home?”*
That day was cold and damp. Rain had been falling since dawn, the wind tearing leaves from the trees. Hunched and shivering, he felt the chill seep into his bones. Then he heard footsteps. A woman in an old coat shuffled along, as if she wasnt sure where she was going. When she spotted him, she stopped.
“Oh, love whos done this to you?” she murmured.
*You look at me differently. Not like the others who walk past. Your eyes are warm, like hers used to be.*
She knelt beside him but didnt reach out right away. Slowly, she pulled a piece of bread and sausage from her bag.
“Here, eat.”
He crept forward cautiously, as if the ground might vanish. He took the food, chewing each bite carefully, afraid it might disappear. She didnt rush him, just sat and watched.
“Come on,” she said softly, almost a whisper. “Its warm inside. And no onell hurt you anymore.”
*Youre calling me But can I trust it? What if the door shuts again tomorrow?*
Still, he followed. The gate creaked as they stepped into the little yardpeeling fence, an apple tree down to bare branches. The house smelled of soup and fresh bread. The scent hit him so sharply he froze on the threshold. She spread an old blanket on the floor, poured clean water, and set down a bowl of warm porridge.
“This is your home now,” she said, gently touching his head.
That night, he barely slept. He lay there, listening to her moving aboutthe creak of floorboards, the clink of dishes in the kitchen. More than once, she peeked in, adjusting the blanket and murmuring,
“Youre home now, understand?”
*Home How afraid I was Id never hear that word again.*
The days passed differently after that. Hed wait by the door for her, bringing his faded old ball. Hed curl up beside her as she drank tea, listening to her voice even if he didnt catch the words. His fur grew soft again, his eyes clear.
Sometimes, passing *that* fence, hed pause. Staring at nothing, as if his old self still sat therewet, hungry, lost. The woman would step close, rest a hand on his scruff, and say,
“Come on home.”
*Yes now I know where it is.*
