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I checked the back door. It hadn’t latched all the way.
The panic hit me so fast I nearly choked on it.
before I noticed.
I tore through the neighborhood in my boots, screaming his name. I posted online. Made flyers. Knocked on doors, trying not to sound insane.
I said “special” because I didn’t want to explain that he was the last heartbeat connected to my mom. That I couldn’t lose him too.
But nobody had seen him.
Every night I sat on the porch with a blanket, leaving food out, listening for a meow that never came.
Then Christmas Eve arrived, cold and gloomy.
I was terrified he’d gotten lost,
trapped somewhere cold,
I’d tried decorating the tree, but every ornament felt like stepping on glass.
“Cole, where are you, boy?” I cried. But only the wind answered, howling like it was mourning too.
And that’s when I heard a soft, unmistakable thud against the back door.
I froze.
“Cole, where are you, boy?”
I crawled to my feet and opened it, praying I wasn’t imagining it again.
And there he was.
Cole.
He was thinner than I remembered, dirt caked on his paws, his coat duller than usual. But those eyes, those golden eyes, were sharp and locked on mine.
In his mouth was a small object. My breath caught as he dropped it gently at my feet.
And there he was.
Cole.
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