When I stepped closer, I realized it was a tiny puppy, wrapped awkwardly inside her coat. Both of them were trembling. I asked gently, “Sweetheart, are you okay?”
She looked up with big, red eyes and whispered, “I found him by the dumpster.
He was crying… and he was so cold. But my mom says we can’t keep him. We barely have money for food.”
The puppy whimpered then—so small, so fragile—that I felt something twist painfully in my chest.
His whole body shook, not just from the cold, but from fear. “I can take him,” I said softly. “I have room at home.
I can keep him safe.”
She bit her lip hard, thinking it over, her little hands stroking his head as if trying to memorize the feel of him. Finally she said, “Only if… only if I can visit. I don’t want him to think I left him.”
I promised she could come anytime.
That was three years ago. She kept her word—every single Saturday, rain or shine. She’d run up the walkway, and Lucky—no longer a shivering scrap of fur but a healthy, spoiled, joyful dog—would nearly knock down the door to get to her.
Their laughter filled my home like music. Then, last month, she arrived earlier than usual. Her hands were shaking as she held out an envelope.
Inside was a photo of her and Lucky, both smiling. “We’re moving to another city,” she said, trying so hard to sound brave. “Mom said… if I ever wanted him back, I should ask you.” She paused, looking down.
“But… I don’t think I will.”
Before I could find the right words, she hugged Lucky one last time, whispered something into his fur, and walked away. The house has felt strangely quiet ever since. And I haven’t seen her since.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental.
The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
