This Fence Is the Only Place That Doesn’t Drive Me Away. Sometimes I Feel Like I’ve Grown Attached…

This fence is the only place that doesnt drive me away. Sometimes I feel like Ive grown attached to it

People walked past: some hurried, some slow, but hardly anyone

“Ive stopped counting the days. When each one is the same, when everything begins and ends the same way, numbers lose their meaning. Here, by this rusty fence, mornings only differ from evenings in how the light falls. The rain and wind have become as familiar as hunger and silence. And yet, I havent left. This fence is the only place that doesnt drive me away. Sometimes I feel Ive clung to it like I once did to the house. But maybe Im still waiting for what? I dont know.”

I sat on the narrow strip of dirt between the wobbly fence and the pavement. My fur was tangled and dull, the mud mixed with water beneath my paws, and the rain dripped slowly from the rusted bars. People passed bysome in a hurry, others slowbut almost no one stopped. If they did look, it was only for a moment, with tired or indifferent eyes. To them, I was just another stray.

But I remembered another world. A world where mornings began with the smell of toast. A little kitchen where Id weave between feet, trying to reach the table. The warm stove in winter, and the mistresss laughter when I tripped over my own paws. The soft hand that would absently stroke my head.

Everything changed slowly. First, just cold, distant glances. Then a bowl left empty more and more often. Shouts, harsh words, nudges with a foot. And then, one day, I found myself on the wrong side of the door. No goodbye, no explanation. Just the click of the latch, and I was outside.

“I thought it was a mistake. I thought theyd call me back soon. But the door never opened again.”

Life on the street was a brutal schoollessons learned through kicks and scrapes. I learned to dodge sticks, avoid thrown stones, and scavenge crumbs outside shops. Sometimes I managed to steal a slice of bread or beg a bone from a rare kind passerby. But even then, whenever I met a strangers gaze, Id still hope: *Maybe this is the one wholl say, Come on, lets go home.*

That day was cold and damp. Rain had fallen since morning, the wind tearing leaves from the trees. I sat curled up, feeling the chill seep into my bones. Then I heard footstepsa woman in an old coat, walking slowly, as if she wasnt sure where she was going. When she saw me, she stopped.

“Oh, love who did this to you?” she whispered.

*You look at me differently. Not like the ones who walk past. Your eyes are warm, like hers used to bethe one I once called mine.*

She knelt beside me but didnt reach out right away. Slowly, she pulled a piece of bread and sausage from her bag.
“Here, eat.”

I stepped forward cautiously, as if the ground might vanish. I took the food and chewed slowly, savoring every bite, afraid it might disappear. She didnt rush me, just sat there, watching.
“Come on,” she murmured, barely above a whisper. “Its warm inside. And no one will hurt you again.”

*Youre calling me but can I trust it? What if tomorrow the door shuts again?*

Still, I followed. The gate creaked as we stepped into the little yard. The old, peeling fence, the apple tree with bare branches. The house smelled of soup and fresh breada scent so sharp in my memory that I froze on the doorstep. She spread an old blanket on the floor, poured clean water, and set down a bowl of warm porridge.
“This is your home now,” she said, gently touching my head.

That night, I barely slept. I lay there, listening to her moving aboutthe creak of floorboards, the clink of dishes in the kitchen. She checked on me often, adjusting the blanket, whispering:
“Youre home now, understand?”

*Home How afraid I was Id never hear that word again.*

The days passed differently now. Id wait by the door for her, bringing the old faded ball. Id curl up beside her while she drank tea, listening to her voice even if I didnt understand the words. My fur grew soft again, my eyes clear.

Sometimes, when we passed that same fence, Id stop. Id stare at nothing, as if my old self still sat therewet, hungry, lost. Shed step close, rest her hand on my neck, and say:
“Come on, love. Lets go home.”

*Yes now I know where it is.*