15October2026 Diary
The world hurried past me today, some in a rush, some at a crawl, but hardly anyone stopped. Ive stopped counting the days. When each one begins and ends in the same way, numbers lose their meaning. Here, beside the rustcovered fence, morning and evening differ only in how the light falls. The rain and the wind have become as familiar as hunger and silence, yet I never walked away. This fence is the only place that does not chase me away. Sometimes I feel attached to it the way a man once felt to his own cottage. Perhaps Im still waiting for what? I cannot say.
The narrow footpath squeezed between the fence and the pavement. My fur had matted, dulled, the mud under my paws mixed with water, and rain dripped slowly from the corroded rails. Passersby brushed past: some hurried, some ambled, almost no one paused. If they glanced, it was only for a heartbeat, with tired or indifferent eyes. To them I was just another stray, left out on the street.
But I remembered another world. A world where mornings began with the smell of fresh bread. A tiny kitchen where my paws swirled beneath the table, trying to reach the surface. The warm stove in winter and the landladys laugh when I clumsily bumped into her foot. The soft hand that would gently stroke my head.
Things changed slowly. At first only fleeting, chilly glances. Then a bowl that stayed empty more often than not. Shouts, harsh words, shoving. And one day I found myself beyond the threshold, without farewell, without explanation. The door simply shut, and I was left outside.
I thought it was a mistake. I thought theyd call me soon. But the door never opened.
The street became my school, where lessons were learned through bruises and scratches. I learned to dodge sticks, skirt stones, scavenge crumbs outside the corner shops. Sometimes I managed to snatch a slice of loaf, or coax a bone from a rare kind soul. Yet even when a passerby met my eyes, I always hoped, Perhaps theyll be the one who says, Come home with me.
That day was cold and damp. Rain had been falling since dawn, the wind tearing leaves from the oaks. I huddled, feeling the chill seep into every bone. Then I heard footsteps. An elderly woman in a threadbare coat shuffled slowly, as if even she could not tell where she was heading. When she saw me, she stopped.
Lordabove dear thing, who has hurt you so? she whispered.
You look at me differently. Not like those who pass by without a second thought. Your eyes are warm, like the woman I once knew as my mistress.
She knelt beside me but did not reach out straight away. Slowly she produced a crust of bread and a piece of sausage from her satchel.
Here, have a bite.
I hesitated, as if the ground might give way beneath me. I took the food, chewing each mouthful deliberately, as though fearing it might vanish. She did not hurry me; she simply sat and watched.
Come, she said softly, almost a murmur. Its warm inside. No one will hurt you any longer.
Will you? Can I believe it? What if tomorrow the door shuts again?
Yet I followed her. The gate creaked, and we stepped into a modest courtyard. The old, battered fence lay beside a gnarled apple tree, its branches stripped bare. The cottage exhaled the scent of stew and fresh bread. The aroma struck me so sharply that I froze at the doorstep. The woman spread an old quilt on the floor, poured clear water into a bowl, and set a pot of hot porridge steaming.
This is your home now, she said, her hand brushing my head gently.
The night passed in a halfsleep. I lay there, listening to the soft creak of boards, the clink of pots in the kitchen, the faint rustle of the woman moving about. She would often return, adjust the quilt, and whisper:
Youre home, you hear?
Home Im terrified of never hearing that word again.
The days unfolded differently. She waited for me at the door, brought an old, frayed ball, sat beside me as she sipped tea, and listened to my breathing, even if I could not understand her words. My coat grew soft again, my eyes clear.
Sometimes, when I passed that same fence, I stopped. I stared into emptiness, as if the old, wet, hungry version of myself still lingered there. The woman would step forward, place a hand on my neck, and say:
Lets go home.
Yes now I finally know where it is.
Looking back, I realise that the world can be as bleak as a rainsoaked lane, but a single act of kindness can redraw the borders of ones life. I have learned that waiting in the cold does not have to be forever; opening the heart, even for a stray, can turn a forgotten fence into a doorway. My lesson: never underestimate the power of a simple offeringbe it bread, a warm word, or a gentle handto change a life forever.
