I stepped out into snow that swallowed my boots past the ankles, the cold biting through layers faster than it should have, and I remember thinking, with a strange clarity, that nothing alive would choose to stand still in weather like that unless it had no other option.
“Hey there,” I called, my voice carried off by the wind.
The dog didn’t bark.
It didn’t lunge.
It just watched me, its eyes alert but not aggressive, and when I got closer, I saw the scars—old ones, layered over each other, the kind that told a story of survival rather than neglect, the kind that made people step back before asking questions.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” I said, lowering myself slightly despite the cold screaming through my knees.
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