This fence is the only place that doesnt drive me away. Sometimes I feel as though Ive grown attached
People walked pastsome hurried, some slow, but hardly anyone
“Ive stopped counting the days. If theyre all the same, if everything begins and ends the same way, the 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 as though Ive grown as attached to it as I once was to a house. But maybe Im still waiting for what? I dont know.”
She sat on the narrow strip of dirt between the wobbly fence and the pavement. Her fur was matted and dull, the mud beneath her paws mixed with rainwater as droplets slid slowly from the rusted railings. People passed bysome in a rush, others ambling, 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 she wriggled underfoot, trying to reach the table. The warm stove in winter and the laughter of her owner when she tripped over her own feet. The gentle hand that would absently stroke her head.
Slowly, things changed. First, it was just cold glances. Then a bowl left empty more and more often. Shouts, harsh words, shoves. Then one day, she found herself on the wrong side of the doorstep. No goodbye, no explanation. The door simply closed, and she stayed outside.
“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 harsh teacher, where lessons came with kicks and scrapes. She learned to dodge sticks, avoid thrown stones, and scrounge 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, and the wind tore 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 shuffled slowly, as if unsure where she was going. When she spotted her, she stopped.
“Oh, love whos hurt you like this?” she murmured.
“You look at me differently. Not like the ones who walk past. Your eyes are warm, like hersthe woman I once called mine.”
The woman crouched beside her 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 afraid it might disappear. The woman didnt rush her, just sat and watched.
“Come on,” she said softly, almost whispering. “Its warm inside. No one will hurt you again.”
“Youre calling me but can I believe it? What if tomorrow the door closes again?”
Still, she followed. The gate creaked as they stepped into a small yard. A peeling fence, an apple tree stripped to bare branches. The house smelled of soup and fresh bread. The scent hit her memory so sharply she froze on the doorstep. 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 barely slept. She lay there, listening to the woman moving aboutthe creak of floorboards, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. More than once, she peeked in, adjusted the blanket, and whispered:
“Youre home now, hear me?”
“Home How afraid I was Id never hear that word again.”
The days passed differently now. She waited by the door, brought her old faded 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, walking past that same fence, shed pause. Staring at 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 sure where it is.”
