Ekan lay in the grass, his fur matted, his eyes searching the empty yard. The old woman’s laughter, once warm, was gone.
Her house stood silent now. Its windows, once bright with her humming, stared blankly. Ekan’s world had been her soft hands, her gentle voice, her plate of scraps after supper. She was gone, and he was alone.
The daughters came, their voices sharp, their footsteps hurried. They spoke of money, of papers, of things Ekan couldn’t understand. He waited by the door, tail low, hoping for her touch. It never came.
The daughters left. They took the furniture, the photos, the warmth. They left Ekan. He curled up on the porch, the wood cold beneath him.
Days passed. His bowl stayed empty. The water dish cracked in the sun. He learned to drink from puddles, to scavenge what he could. His ribs began to show.
The Weight of Being Forgotten
One evening, Ekan wandered too far. The road was quiet, the air heavy with dusk. A car came fast. He didn’t see it. The impact threw him into the ditch. Pain seared through his back, sharp and endless.
He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled, then gave out. He dragged himself back to the porch, each movement a fight. No one noticed. No one came.
The house was locked now, the yard overgrown. Ekan lay there, his breaths shallow, his eyes tracing the stars. He remembered her voice, calling him to her side.
He remembered the weight of her hand on his head. Now, there was only silence. His body ached, but his heart hurt more.
A neighbor passed by one morning. She saw him, thin and trembling, his fur dull. She stopped, her face softening.
She brought water, a handful of kibble. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him going. She didn’t know his story, only that he was alone. She called someone.
A Hand Reaches Out
They came for him on a cloudy afternoon. Gentle hands lifted him, careful not to press his broken back. They spoke softly, their voices steady, not like the daughters’ sharp tones.
Ekan was too weak to wag his tail, but his eyes followed them. They took him to a place with clean floors and warm lights.
A vet looked at him, her brow furrowing. The X-ray showed a fractured spine, a tumor growing quietly in his belly.
Every night, he whimpered. The pain was a constant companion, gnawing at him in the dark. The people stayed close. They gave him medicine, cleaned his sores, spoke his name.
Ekan didn’t understand their words, but he felt their kindness. It was like her kindness, from before. He ate what they offered, small bites at first, then more. His appetite held strong, a flicker of fight in his tired body.
They gave him a bed, soft and clean. He sank into it, his bones grateful. The mornings brought sunlight through a window, warming his fur.
He closed his eyes, letting the light hold him. It wasn’t her, but it was something. He began to trust it.
The Slow Return of Hope
By day eleven, the whimpering stopped. Ekan ate on his own, lapping water without help. He pressed against the wall to stand, his legs shaky but stubborn. His tail moved, just a little, a quiet wave of thanks.
The people smiled when they saw it. They told him he was strong. He didn’t know the word, but he felt it in their hands, their voices.
On day twenty-seven, he stood alone. His steps were slow, uneven, but they were his. The tumor was still there, the surgeries still to come.
But Ekan wasn’t alone anymore. He had a bed, a window, a bowl that stayed full. He had people who stayed.
His fur began to shine again, patches of it soft under careful fingers. He looked at them now, his eyes brighter, holding theirs a moment longer.
He didn’t understand the future, the operations, the long road ahead. He only knew the warmth of this moment, the sound of their voices, the weight of a hand on his head.
They called him a fighter. Maybe he was. He didn’t think about it. He thought about the sun, the food, the bed. He thought about the woman who loved him, whose absence still ached.
But these new hands, these new voices—they were enough. They were a second chance.
Ekan lay in his bed, the morning light spilling over him. His tail thumped softly. He was still here.
This story was inspired by a quiet, touching video you can watch here. If it moved you, feel free to support the original creator.