Willow had good days. Days where her tail wagged so hard it thumped against the walls like a metronome. Days where she followed me from room to room, her mismatched gait turning into something almost playful. On those days, you’d never guess she had ever been that frozen, broken thing in a cage.
And then there were the other days.
A dropped pan. A raised voice from the TV. Even the wind rattling the windows just right. Something would snap inside her, and suddenly she wasn’t in my living room anymore. She was back there—in the cold, in the dark, in whatever place had taught her that the world was something to survive, not live in.
She’d scramble for cover, claws skidding on the hardwood, trying to make herself invisible.
The first time it happened, I froze. Not because I didn’t care—but because I cared too much and didn’t know how to reach her.
“Willow,” I said softly, crouching down. “Hey. It’s just me.”
She didn’t come.
So I sat on the floor. Not moving closer. Not forcing it. Just… being there.
