A little boy stood on the threshold of his house, clutching a dark, still wet lump to his chest. Velvety wool was coming out from under his thin fingers, and through his shirt he could feel the rapid, rapid beating of a small heart. It was a miracle. The real thing. He found him in a ditch by the mill, lifeless, cold, caked in mud. Just two tiny coins with mysterious notches, a quiet whisper, a sparkle that trembled on his fingertips - and life returned to the eyeless body. At first, it was just a faint sigh. Then a tremor. And then the dog, just a puppy, licked his cheek with a rough, warm tongue.

"Fluffy!" Hector whispered, and this name was born by itself, along with a wave of such tender, such all-encompassing love that overwhelmed his soul that it seemed to him that he was about to glow from within.

With this radiance in his eyes, with this timid but victorious smile, he crossed the threshold of the house. "Mom, look!" his voice, clear and sonorous, cut through the oppressive silence. "He was dead, and I... I helped. I saved him!"

His mother, a thin woman with a tired, prematurely aged face, was sitting by the hearth. She turned around, and in her eyes, which were usually extinguished, there was no light, but a quick, animal horror. She jumped up, recoiling, as if he were bringing into the house not a living joy, but a plague rat.

"Again!" Her voice was not a scream, but a tired cry. "You brought that... that filth again! How many times have I told you? Don't you understand? It's not natural! This is repugnant to God and people! Why are you doing this?"

Hector froze, and his radiance faded, like a flame blown out by a sharp gust of wind. He hugged the puppy tighter, feeling it freeze and tremble. "But he's alive..." he tried to protest, and his voice faltered. "He was dead, but now he's alive, and he's so kind, look..."

"Shut up!" She rushed to him, and her hand, sharp and bony, slapped him on the cheek. The impact wasn't strong, but it sounded like a thunderclap. It wasn't a slap to a naughty boy. It was rejection. Condemnation. "I'm so sick of this! You do the same thing every time. Do you know what the neighbors say about us? I don't want IT in my house! Do you hear that? Throw it away immediately!"

Tears sprang from his pale eyes by themselves, hot and salty. He didn't cry from the pain. He was crying with incomprehension. "Why?" he sobbed. "Why not? He won't hurt anyone.… I'll take care of him, I'll feed him... Mom, please..."

But her face was set in stone. There was not a drop of pity in him, only irritation, fatigue, and the same painfully familiar horror of his own son. Her fingers dug into his arm, pulling out a warm, living lump. The puppy squealed pitifully. Hector screamed, trying to hold on, but the adult was stronger. He saw his mother, without looking at him, open the heavy door and hurl his friend, his Fluffy, into the gathering dusk. The tiny body turned a somersault and disappeared into the darkness. The door slammed shut, and the mother just turned away, muttering to herself in frustration: "I wish you had never been born..."

The night had already fully entered its rights when Hector, shivering from cold and grief, slipped out of the house. There was no moon in the sky, just a few cold stars. He walked, stumbling over the stones, calling out to his friend in a voice choked with sobs. "Fluffy… Where are you?.. I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." he called in a desperate whisper. "I'm here... come out to me..."

He looked under every cart, felt through the thorny bushes with his hands, without feeling any scratches. He sincerely, to the very depths of his pure soul, did not understand: why is saving a bad thing? Why did his mother, whom he loves more than anything in the world, look at him with such horror? What did he do wrong? He just wanted to love and be loved. Is it really that terrible?