The shelter was cold and unwelcoming. The concrete floor sent chills through your thin fur, and the only warmth you had was a small, worn blanket curled beneath you. Days blurred together as people came and went, their eyes skimming over you without a second glance. They always chose someone else—someone livelier, someone who wagged their tail and pressed against the bars, eager to leave.

Then, on a rainy afternoon, heavy footsteps echoed down the aisle, stopping right outside your kennel. You barely lifted your head, too used to disappointment to hope. But when you did, you saw a big man standing there, his gaze fixed on you. Unlike the others, he didn’t move on. He didn’t sigh and shake his head. He just stood there, watching.

His presence was steady, unhurried. Slowly, he crouched down, resting his arms on his knees. “Hey there, buddy,” he murmured, his voice deep but gentle. You tensed, unsure if you should retreat further into the corner or acknowledge him.