This fence is the only place that doesnt drive me away. Sometimes I feel as if Ive grown attached
People walked pastsome in a hurry, some slowbut hardly anyone noticed.
*Ive stopped counting the days. When every one is the same, when each begins and ends in the exact 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 dont leave. This fence is the only place that doesnt drive me away. Sometimes it feels like Ive clung to it the way I once did to a home. Maybe Im still waiting but for what? I dont know.*
She sat on the narrow strip of earth between the wobbly fence and the pavement. Her fur was matted, dull, the mud beneath her paws mixed with rainwater as droplets slid down the rusted iron. People passedglancing, if at all, with tired or indifferent eyes. To them, she was just another stray, left to the mercy of the streets.
But she remembered another world. Mornings that began with the smell of toast. A small kitchen where shed weave between legs, hoping for a scrap from the table. The warmth of the radiator in winter, the sound of her owners laughter when she tripped over her own feet. The gentle hand that used to stroke her head without a second thought.
Then, slowly, everything changed. First, it was cold stares. Then an empty bowl left more and more often. Shouts, harsh words, a shove. Until one day, she found herself on the wrong side of the threshold. No goodbye, no explanation. Just the click of the lock behind her.
*I thought it was a mistake. I thought theyd call me back. But the door never opened again.*
Life on the street was a cruel lesson, each one learned through hunger and bruises. She hid from sticks, dodged thrown stones, scavenged crumbs outside shops. Sometimes she stole a crust of bread or begged a bone from a rare kind stranger. But even then, when she met a passerbys gaze, a part of her still hoped: *Maybe youll be the one to say, Come on, lets go home.*
The day was cold, damp. Rain had fallen since dawn, the wind tearing leaves from the trees. Curled tight, she felt the chill seep into her bones. Thenfootsteps. A woman in a worn coat moved slowly, as if unsure of where she was going. When she spotted her, she stopped.
Good Lord sweetheart, who did 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. The one I once called mine.*
The woman crouched but didnt reach out at once. Slowly, she pulled bread and a bit of sausage from her bag.
Here. Eat.
She hesitated, as if the ground might vanish beneath her. But she took it, chewing each bite carefully, afraid it might disappear. The woman didnt rush, just 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 trust it? What if tomorrow the door shuts again?*
Still, she followed. The gate creaked as they stepped into a small yard. A peeling fence, a bare apple tree. The house smelled of soup and fresh breadso sharply familiar she froze on the step. Inside, the woman spread an old blanket, set down clean water, and a bowl of warm porridge.
This is your home now, she said, resting a gentle hand on her head.
That night, she barely slept. She lay still, listening to footsteps inside, the creak of floorboards, the clink of dishes. More than once, the woman peeked in, adjusting the blanket, murmuring,
Youre home now, dyou hear?
*Home I was so afraid Id never hear that word again.*
Days passed differently now. She waited by the door, brought a faded tennis ball. She curled up beside the woman as she drank tea, listening to her voice even when she didnt understand the words. Her fur grew soft again, her eyes clear.
Sometimes, passing that old fence, she paused. Stared at nothing, as if her old self still sat theresoaked, starving, lost. The woman would step closer, rest a hand on her scruff, and say:
Come on. Lets go home.
*Yes Now I know where it is.*
