“You made the first mistake,” he said flatly, eyes flicking to my tear-streaked face. “But Abraham’s reaction was too much. Still, it doesn’t make sense for a dog to pay for a human’s mistake.”
His voice held no warmth. No remorse.
Just judgment.
Then he frowned and walked away.
Don’t worry, I thought bitterly. I won’t be in the way much longer.
I returned to the house and began packing.
It took me less than thirty minutes to gather everything I owned.
Seven years.
And almost nothing here truly belonged to me.
I had bought countless clothes and toys for Abraham over the years, but he never liked them.
Since he didn’t want them, I would give them to children who did.
I hailed a taxi to the welfare home I had contacted.
The director received me warmly, deeply grateful for the clothes and toys I brought. Winter was coming, and every bit helped.
The children gathered excitedly, digging through the toys with bright eyes and delighted laughter.
Their carefree joy was infectious.
For the first time in days—maybe years—my heart felt light.
I had never truly known what “home” felt like, not even as a child. My parents were cold, present in name only.
Yet here, in this small orphanage, I saw children wrapped in laughter, in simplicity, in each other.
And I realized something.
What I’ve longed for all along wasn’t them—not my parents, not Arthur, not even Abraham.
It was that fragile, precious thing called home.
And now that I’d finally understood it... I could let go.
The air felt lighter as I stepped back outside. But my peace was short-lived.
Just as I turned a corner on the walk back, two figures lunged from the shadows.
One threw a sack over my head, and before I could scream, the other grabbed my legs and lifted me into a waiting van.
I kicked, twisted, clawed at the fabric—but a heavy blow slammed into the back of my skull.
Everything went black.
