Fhilcar Faunillani 
The cat staggered across the cracked pavement, thin as a whisper. His bones pressed sharp against his skin, a skeleton draped in dull fur. A woman walked her dog under the July sun. She stopped, her eyes catching the cat’s unsteady steps. In her bag, a small can of cat food, meant for her own …
The kitten’s cries were faint, like whispers lost in the wind. I saw him stumbling down the street, alone. His tiny paws barely touched the ground, each step a wobble. He followed me, meowing, his voice sharp against the quiet afternoon. I stopped and looked back. His eyes, wide and searching, held mine. I knelt, …
The orange cat sat alone in the dark. Her eyes caught the light, wide and wary. Dust settled on empty shelves. The store had been abandoned, its windows smudged with time. She crouched in a corner, her thin frame tucked against a cracked wall. Hunger gnawed at her, a quiet ache. Nobody came here anymore. …
The cat had no front legs. His eyes, wide and green, followed me through the dusk. I stopped, heart heavy, on the cracked sidewalk. He dragged himself closer, not begging, just watching. His fur was matted, gray like the fading light. I knelt, and he didn’t flinch. Something in his stillness held me there, as …
No one knew how he walked five miles barefoot. Or why he held that scruffy dog so tightly. But when they tried to pull them apart, he whispered a name no one had heard in years. That was the moment everything changed. PART 1 – “The Wrong Way Home” The first time James Wilder disappeared, …
Her eyes, clouded with pain, still flickered with trust. She lay in the dirt, waiting. The yard was a graveyard of broken things—rusted cans, splintered wood, and dreams long abandoned. A German Shepherd, thin as a shadow, curled up in the mess. Her fur was gone in patches, her skin raw and flaking. She didn’t …
The dog lay still in the stall, his bones sharp under thin skin. His eye, the one left, stared at nothing. Dirt clung to him like a heavy coat. The air smelled of neglect, thick and sour. He didn’t move when we found him. His body seemed to have given up, waiting for the end. …
The old dog lay still before the gate. His eyes, cloudy with age, held a silent plea. He didn’t move when the wind stirred the dust around him. His body, scarred and thin, sank into the earth. Each breath was a small labor, a whisper of life clinging to hope. The gate, rusted and worn, …
Miel limped along the cracked sidewalk, her eyes soft with sorrow. She paused, nose twitching, searching for a scrap of kindness. The street was her home now, the same one where she’d once trotted beside her owner. He’d walked her here as a pup, her tail wagging like a metronome. Now, she was old, her …
The dog’s eyes were empty, like windows to a house long abandoned. He sat by the gate, waiting. Every day, he returned to the same spot, his paws scuffing the dirt near his owner’s home. The gate stayed shut. His tail didn’t wag anymore, but he didn’t leave. Neighbors whispered, their voices soft with pity. …
The cat crouched by the store’s door, thin and trembling. His eyes, wide and searching, met mine. Last year, I’d tossed him scraps from my bag. A fleeting kindness, forgotten until now. His fur was matted, his frame frail, but those eyes remembered me. I knelt, heart heavy with recognition. He didn’t run. He shuffled …
The cat’s eyes caught the sunlight, wide and searching. Her belly sagged, heavy with life. She stood on the cracked pavement, a stray in a world that barely noticed. Her fur was matted, her steps careful, but she moved toward me when I called. A soft meow, almost a whisper, answered my voice. She circled …
The kitten lay in my palm, barely heavier than a breath. His pink skin shivered under the summer light. He was the only one still breathing when we found him. A premature scrap of life, smaller than the others, alone in the grass. I cradled him, feeling the faint pulse against my fingers, and knew …
The cat sat in the dust, his fur matted, his eyes dull. He looked up, unafraid. I stopped walking. The street was quiet, just him and me. His tail flicked once, slow, like he was testing the air. I knelt, my knees stiff from years of mornings. He didn’t run. He tilted his head, let …
The kitten’s paws pattered behind me, soft as whispers on the concrete. I glanced back, and his wide eyes held mine, unblinking, asking to be seen. He was small, barely taller than a single stair. I climbed the first step of the apartment building, my boots heavy on the worn wood. The kitten followed, his …