Ashleigh Berlin 
The puppies huddled in the dirt, their ribs sharp against thin skin. Their eyes, big and trembling, held no mischief, only fear. They were five, barely alive, curled together in a corner of a yard. The owner said they chased his chickens. He said they needed a lesson. His words were cold, like the ground …
He hadn’t spoken to a soul in years—except to apologize to a photo in the hallway. Then one winter night, something limped into his world, half-shadow and half-memory. Its tag was rusted, but the name hit him like a siren in the dark. He dropped to his knees, whispering a name he hadn’t said in …
The puppy lay shivering in the wet grass. His tiny body trembled, eyes wide with pain. A man found him on his way to work. He was old, his face lined with years. He stopped, knelt, and saw the puppy’s broken form. The pup whimpered, unable to stand. The man’s hands shook as he lifted …
She sat up one last time when the wind changed. Not for pain. Not for hunger. But for something she remembered. The yard was silent, the snow unbroken—except at the door of her house. A raccoon waited there. So did a bird. And a fat orange shadow beneath the porch. They had come to say …
The dog lay on the cold pavement, her body curled tight. Her eyes searched blindly, left, then right, desperate for something she’d never find. The children saw her first. “A man left her here,” they said, their voices small. “He walked away and didn’t look back.” She was a small dog, shivering in the dirt, …
No one heard the scream but him. No one saw the blood but him. He ran into the trees like he’d done it before—not for glory, not for reward, but for two little girls who never saw him coming. 📗 PART 1 – “The Fight Beneath the Pines” The sky was already dimming over Whittaker …
He never asked the town for kindness. He gave it away, quietly — one card, one crooked smile at a time. And the dog? Just a mutt, just a greeter — but folks said he looked straight into your hurt. So when the leash went empty, the mailbox filled. And Harold, for the first time …
The snow fell thick and silent. A dog dragged himself forward, hind legs limp, useless. His name was Bagel. His eyes, dark and heavy, stared into the distance. The cold bit at his fur, but he moved on, aimless, through the endless white. Each pull of his front paws was a quiet fight. He didn’t …
The birds still sang, but not for him. Something sacred in the soil kept him rooted. He waited where she last whispered his name. Seasons shifted, bones stiffened, memories blurred—yet he did not move. Not until the strangers came, smelling like rain and woodsmoke. PART 1 – “Where the Wind Paused” Rufus was a sable-and-white …
She hated dogs. Hated their smell, their noise, the memories they dragged behind them. But every afternoon, they came — three pairs of eyes waiting in silence. She swore she’d never care again. Then winter came early. And someone left a pawprint on her porch that wouldn’t melt. 🐾 Part 1 – The Porch and …
The puppy lay curled in a nest of trash. His small body trembled, hidden among the landfill’s decay. Bites marred his skin. His neck oozed pus. His eyes, barely open, held a quiet terror. Dexter, just a month old, had seen too much. His mother was gone. His siblings, torn apart by wild animals. He …
The dog lay in the dirt, her body trembling. Pain carved deep lines into her matted fur. She cried softly, a sound that broke the stillness of the village street. Two days had passed. No one stopped for her. Neighbors glanced, then turned away. Her whimpers grew weaker. The sun burned her back. Fleas and …
He didn’t scream when they hit him. Didn’t beg when they tore through the door. But when his dog limped into the light, bleeding and silent — he broke. You never think your life will depend on the one soul the world gave up on. Until it does. 📘 PART 1 – “The Cigarette in …
She lay by the fence long after the light changed. The air tasted of apples and rust, the wind no longer carried his boots. Something inside her still turned its ears when a shadow passed. It wasn’t loneliness, not exactly. But the silence had grown teeth. 🔹 PART 1 The old Border Collie did not …
He never talked about how he lost his leg. Not to his wife. Not to his son. But today, his grandson asked — and he finally opened the box. Inside: a faded dog tag, a patch of fur, and a memory buried in red soil. “It started the day I stepped on the wrong patch …