This Fence Is the Only Thing That Doesn’t Chase 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 pastsome hurried, others slow, but almost no one stopped.

“Ive stopped counting the days. When theyre all the same, when everything begins and ends the same way, numbers lose their meaning. Here, by this rusted fence, morning only differs from evening in how the light falls. 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 like Ive clung to it as tightly as I once did to a home. But maybe Im still waiting for what? I dont know.”

She sat on the narrow strip of dirt between the wobbly fence and the pavement. Her fur was matted, dull, the mud beneath her paws mixing with rainwater as it dripped from the rusted bars. People passed bysome in a rush, others amblingbut hardly anyone paused. If they did look, it was just for a second, with tired or indifferent eyes. To them, she was just another stray, left to the streets.

But she remembered another world. A world where mornings began with the scent of toast. A small kitchen where shed curl around feet, trying to reach the table. The warmth of the stove in winter, and the laughter of the woman whod sometimes trip over her. The gentle hand that would stroke her head just because.

Everything changed slowly. First, it was just cold glances. Then a bowl left empty more and more often. Shouts, harsh words, a shove. And one day, she found herself on the wrong side of the doorstep. No goodbye, no explanation. Just the click of the door locking behind her.

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

Life on the street was a brutal teacher, where lessons came with kicks and scrapes. She learned to dodge stones, to scavenge crumbs outside shops. Sometimes shed steal a crust of bread or beg a bone from a rare kind stranger. Even then, when shed catch a passerbys eye, shed hopejust for a second*Maybe theyll say, Come on, lets go home.*

The day was cold and damp. Rain had fallen since morning, the wind tearing leaves from the trees. She sat hunched, feeling the chill seep into her bones. Then she heard footsteps. An older woman in a worn coat moved slowly, as if she wasnt sure where she was going. When she saw her, she stopped.

“Good Lord little one, whos done this to you?” she murmured.

*You look at me differently. Not like the others who walk past. Your eyes are warm, like hers were.*

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

Cautiously, she stepped forward, as if the ground might vanish beneath her. She took the food, chewing slowly, savoring every bite as if it might disappear. The woman didnt rush her. She just watched.
“Come on,” she said softly, almost a whisper. “Its warm inside. No one will hurt you anymore.”

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

Still, she followed. The gate creaked as they stepped into the small yardpeeling fence, the apple tree stripped bare. The house smelled of soup and fresh bread. The scent hit her memory so sharply she froze on the threshold. The woman 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 her hair.

That night, she barely slept. She lay still, listening to the woman moving through the housethe creak of the floorboards, the clink of dishes in the kitchen. More than once, she peeked in, adjusting the blanket, whispering,
“Youre home now. Do you hear me?”

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

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

Sometimes, passing that old fence, shed pause. Staring at nothing, as if her old self still sat therewet, hungry, lost. The woman would step closer, resting a hand on her neck, and say,
“Come on, lets go home.”

*Yes now I know for certain where it is.*