The dog was sick—her ribs showed beneath her matted fur, and every step seemed to drain what little strength she had left. But still, she carried the bag. It was old and worn, just like her, smelling of the only person she had ever loved. Her owner had left it beside her on the roadside, then walked away without looking back. She had waited for hours, then days, thinking maybe it was a mistake. But deep inside, she knew.
She had been abandoned.
Now she wandered the outskirts of a city that had no place for strays. Her legs ached, her breathing was shallow, and hunger clawed at her belly. Still, she gripped the strap of the bag in her mouth and moved forward. It wasn’t just a burden—it was all she had left of her past life. A symbol of loyalty, of a bond she had believed was unbreakable.
The wind bit at her skin, and she longed for the warmth of the little corner in her old home where she used to sleep. But there would be no warm bed now, no kind hands, no soft voice calling her name. The world had become a colder place, and she knew it.
She limped past people who turned away, unwilling to meet her pleading eyes. A few children pointed, but no one stopped. No one asked where she came from, or why a sick, shivering dog was carrying a bag like it held her last hope.
She didn’t understand why she had been left behind. But she kept moving, the bag swaying gently in her mouth, because that’s what she had always done—follow, carry, love. Even if no one was waiting at the end, she would walk. Because some hearts don’t stop loving, even after they’ve been broken.
