HIS SCENT

It wasn't just an old brown sweater; it was the last place on earth that still held his scent, the only island of warmth in a house that has grown rapidly cold and gray. Every morning begins with the cruel trick of hope—a familiar shadow at the window, a creak in the floorboards that sounds just like his step—sending him running to the door with a wagging tail, only to be met by the heavy silence of an empty hallway. The sunlight that once gleamed on his healthy fur now only illuminates the dancing dust of a forgotten room and a bowl of cold, untouched food, carelessly dumped in the shape of a tin can by a stranger’s hand who doesn't know his name. As the days bleed into weeks, his body grows frail and the shadows lengthen, but his vigil remains unbroken; and when the inevitable hand finally descends to clear away the "debris" of a life left behind, he doesn't see a dirty piece of wool—he sees the only piece of his heart that remains, and he will defend that fading memory with every ounce of strength he has left. 🧶💔