The fence is the only place that doesnt drive me away. Sometimes I feel as though Ive grown attached
People passed by: some hurried, some slow, but hardly anyone
Ive stopped counting the days. When each is the same, when everything begins and ends the same way, numbers lose their meaning. Here, by this rusted fence, morning only differs from evening in 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 tied to it, like I once was to a house. But maybe Im still waiting for what? I dont know.
She sat on the narrow strip of earth between the wobbling fence and the pavement. Her fur was matted and dull, the mud mixing with water beneath her paws as the rain dripped slowly from the rusted bars. People walked past: some rushed, some ambled, but almost no one stopped. If they did look, it was only for a second, with tired or indifferent eyes. To them, she was just another stray dog left on the street.
But she remembered another world. A world where mornings began with the smell of toast. A small kitchen where shed scramble underfoot, trying to reach the table. The warmth of the stove in winter and the laughter of her mistress when she tripped over her own feet. The soft hand that would absentmindedly stroke her head.
Everything changed slowly. First, it was just cold glances. Then a bowl left empty more often. Shouting, harsh words, shoves. And one day, she found herself outside the threshold. No goodbye, no explanation. The door simply shut, and she was left on the other side.
I thought it was a mistake. I thought theyd call me back soon. But the door never opened again.
Life on the street was a cruel school where lessons came through kicks and scrapes. She learned to dodge sticks, avoid hurled stones, and scavenge crumbs outside shops. Sometimes she managed to steal a slice of bread or beg a bone from a rare kind passerby. But even then, whenever she met a strangers gaze, she still hoped: *Maybe this one will say, Come on home?*
That day was cold and damp. Rain had fallen since morning, the wind tearing leaves from the trees. She sat curled up, feeling the chill seep into her bones. Then she heard footsteps. A woman in an old coat moved slowly, as if she herself didnt know where she was going. When she spotted her, she stopped.
Good Lord little one, whos done this to you? she whispered.
*You look at me differently. Not like the others who walk past. Your eyes are warm, like hers used to be.*
The woman knelt but didnt reach out right away. Slowly, 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 and chewed slowly, savoring every bite as if it might disappear. The woman didnt rush her, just sat and watched.
Come on, she said softly, almost a whisper. Its warm inside. And no one will hurt you anymore.
*Youre calling me But can I believe it? What if the door shuts again tomorrow?*
Still, she followed. The gate creaked as they stepped into a small yard. The old, peeling fence, the apple tree with its bare branches. The house smelled of soup and fresh bread. The scent hit her memory so sharply she froze on the threshold. The woman 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 her head.
That night, she nearly stayed awake. She lay there, listening to the woman move about the housethe soft creak of floorboards, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. More than once, the woman peeked in, adjusted the blanket, and whispered,
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 the woman as 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. Shed stare into nothing, as if her old self still sat therewet, hungry, lost. The woman would step closer, rest a hand on her neck, and say,
Come on home.
*Yes now I know for certain where it is.*