The sky was painted in shades of pink and orange as the sun dipped lower, casting a golden glow on the quiet street where I sat. It was my birthday today. At least, I think it was. I’ve lost track of time since the day I was left to fend for myself, but my heart remembers. My heart knows.
I used to have a family. I was their loyal companion, their source of joy, and they were my world. I still remember the way they used to celebrate my birthdays—nothing extravagant, but so full of love. A new toy, a special meal, and the sound of laughter as they sang “Happy Birthday” in their playful, off-key voices. I’d wag my tail so hard it felt like it might fall off, my joy boundless as I soaked in their love.
But this birthday was different. It was quiet. Too quiet.
I wandered along the beach, my paws sinking into the cool sand. The waves lapped gently at the shore, whispering secrets I couldn’t understand. The salty breeze carried the faint scent of fish, reminding me of the meals I used to have—warm, fresh, and given with care. Now, I scavenge for scraps, grateful for anything that fills my aching belly.
I paused by a piece of driftwood, nudging it with my nose. Once, I would have chased it, barked at it, played with it until my energy gave out. But today, it felt hollow, just like the ache in my chest.
I couldn’t help but wonder: did they think of me today? The family who used to call me their own—did they remember my birthday? Did they miss me the way I missed them? Or had I become just a distant memory, lost in the chaos of their busy lives?
A group of children played further down the beach, their laughter ringing out like music. For a moment, I felt a spark of hope. Maybe one of them would notice me, maybe they’d come over and offer a kind word or a gentle pat. But they were too absorbed in their games, and I was invisible once more.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sea in hues of indigo and gold, I closed my eyes and made a wish. I wished for a home, for someone to see me, to love me despite my scars and imperfections. I wished for the warmth of a hand on my head, the sound of a voice calling me “good boy.”
A cool gust of wind rustled my fur, and for a moment, I felt a strange sense of peace. Perhaps the sea had heard my wish. Perhaps the universe wasn’t done with me yet.
I curled up beneath a weathered bench, the sand soft beneath me. The stars began to appear, tiny lights in the vast darkness, and I thought to myself: maybe, just maybe, there’s still hope.
Happy birthday to me. Though the world felt empty now, I held onto the faintest glimmer of faith that someday, someone would fill it with love again.
