Fhilcar Faunillani 
Her cries were soft. Almost like a whisper. They came from a patch of dry dirt, far from any house, any help. A place where nothing much grows and few things pass. She didn’t move. Just crouched low. As if she had forgotten what legs were for. She was so small. Not even the size …
The dog’s eyes held a quiet ache. She lay on the sidewalk, tethered to a post. Her body sagged, thin and worn, as if the weight of loss pressed her down. Milk dripped from her, pooling on the cold concrete. She had just given birth, the subtitles said. Her puppies were gone, taken or lost, …
The puppy lay in the ditch, her small body curled tight. Her tail twitched, barely, against the cold earth. Mud clung to her striped fur, matted and torn. She didn’t whimper. She didn’t move much either. Her face, once soft and curious, was a mess of wounds, raw and swollen. The world had been unkind …
He didn’t move when she opened the door. Not out of fear. Not even pain. He was just too tired. And yet, when her hand reached through the bars and touched his head, something deep inside him stirred. His name was Eliseu. And this was the first gentle touch he’d felt in a very long …
The dog lay in the street, a shadow under the noon sun. Her eyes held no blame, only waiting. Pammy’s fur was matted, black as coal dust, clinging to her thin frame. She didn’t move much. The pavement burned her side, but she stayed still, her broken leg splayed like a snapped twig. People passed. …
The traffic didn’t slow. Cars passed in waves, loud and impatient, splashing through the shallow rain along the roadside. He was there—small, black, and still—no bigger than a handful of shadow. I didn’t see him at first. Just something low and dark near the overpass, something that moved when it shouldn’t have. The First Touch …
She didn’t make a sound. Not even when she tried to crawl, dragging her body across the sidewalk like a shadow too tired to move. I stopped in my tracks. The wind stirred the leaves, but the world went still. She looked up at me—hollow eyes in a bony face, her ribs sharp beneath patchy …
The dog’s eyes trembled when he saw me. His tongue hung loose, useless, from a broken jaw. He crouched in the alley, a shadow among shadows, his fur matted with dirt and time. Fear clung to him like damp air. Each step I took closer made his body flinch, a silent plea to stay away. …
Her eyes caught the sunlight, wide and searching. A tiny kitten dangled from her mouth, mewling softly. She leapt into our car, uninvited, her paws light on the seat. The kitten squirmed, fragile, barely a handful of fur. She set it down, glanced at us, and vanished into the dusk. We sat still, my wife’s …
The trash bins were full that morning. The woman had only stepped outside for a moment, her hands bare in the cold, the sky the color of tin. Then she heard it. A sound so soft it could’ve been the wind. But it wasn’t. It was a cry. Two Small Lives Curled in the Cold …
The cage was cold, its bars rusted. Bucky lay there, barely breathing, his eyes half-closed. His ribs pressed against thin fur. Hunger gnawed him, day after day, until he forgot fullness. The subtitles said he got broth and stale bread. That was all. His world was a small, dim square, and he was too weak …
Her eyes were soft, like damp earth after rain. They held fear, but also a flicker of hope. She lay tethered to a post, the rope biting into her neck. The sun burned high, relentless, baking the warehouse yard where she curled into herself. Her hind legs, twisted and useless, dragged in the dirt. She …
The dog lay crumpled on the pavement. Her ribs pressed sharp against her skin.Hunger had carved her thin, and her eyes held a tired, distant plea. She appeared outside the apartment complex one gray morning. No one knew her.Residents paused, their hearts catching at the sight of her frail body.They offered scraps of food, a …
The old dog lay curled in the dirt, his thin body pressed against the cold gate. His eyes, sunken and dull, stared at nothing, as if hope had slipped away long ago. He was skin and bones, his fur patchy, his ribs sharp under taut skin. The house beyond the gate stood silent, its windows …
The puppy’s eyes gleamed under the streetlight. He dragged himself forward, front paws scraping the cold pavement. His hind legs lay still, useless. A passerby stopped, heart sinking at the sight. They carried him to me, trembling, barely a month old. His fur was matted, his body frail. I cradled him, feeling the faint pulse …