Fhilcar Faunillani 
The sack moved in the dirt, trembling under a gray sky. A man’s hands paused, hesitant, before pulling it open. A dog crawled out, eyes wide with fear. His name would be Max, though no one knew it then. His body shook, not from cold, but from pain that clung to him like damp earth. …
Her belly sagged low, heavy with life, as she stepped from the shadows. I stopped, my dog’s leash loose in my hand, and watched her pause, eyes wide, trusting. The evening was cool, the kind that settles over a small town when the sun dips below the trees. My dog, Rusty, sniffed the air, curious …
The rain fell soft on the pavement, and her eyes caught mine through the glass. A stray cat, small and soaked, huddled by my shop’s door. She didn’t move. She just sat there, her fur matted, her gaze steady but wary. I pushed the door open and set a bowl of scraps near her. She …
The calico cat sat on my windowsill, her eyes steady, holding mine. She seemed to carry a story she couldn’t tell. Her fur caught the morning light, soft patches of orange, black, and white. She didn’t move when I approached, just watched, calm and sure. I set a small bowl of food beside her. She …
The garage smelled of oil and frost. Two kittens huddled in a corner, shivering, their eyes wide. Their tiny bodies pressed together, seeking warmth. The November air bit at my fingers as I crouched low. No mother cat in sight, just these two, barely bigger than my hand. The thermometer outside read near freezing. I …
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 …
On his knees in a dusty attic, James Wilder wept as he clutched a penny he thought was gone forever. Beside him, a stray dog with a torn ear stood watch—guarding not just his steps, but the memories he had buried. PART 1 – “The Wrong Way Home” The first time James Wilder disappeared, they …
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. …