I accidentally turned into a narrow courtyard. I wanted to take a shortcut, but suddenly I heard a strange sound — a dull clank of metal. Under the stairs, leaning his temple against the concrete, lay a ginger dog. A heavy rusty chain stretched from his neck, so rough that it seemed part of the p.u nìshment, not a collar.
I crouched down, and he raised his head. His tired eyes had no anger — only boundless longing and hope. He quietly swatted his tail on the stairs, as if to say: «I still believe.» A lump of shame rose in my throat: there were dozens of people nearby, but he was waiting for no one, but one person. A neighbor from the balcony shouted: «The guard. The owner has left. He was supposed to pick him up, but months have passed.» The man in the cap added: «Let him sit. Such should wear chα ins.» And the dog, as if understanding everything, touched my hand with his nose — and I already knew: you can’t leave it like that.
The next day I returned with food and water. He gulped the water greedily, and took the food so carefully, as if he was afraid to offend. There was a deep furrow on his neck. I called a volunteer friend, Solomiya. She arrived with her partner Semen, who brought a bolt cutter.
The scanner didn’t show a chip. The lock on the chain was welded. «Either cut, or wait for d.e αth,» — Semen growled. I nodded. Sparks cut through the silence, the dog trembled, but endured, putting his paw on my palm. When the chain fell, the space around seemed to exhale. He took a step — and stopped, not believing in freedom. We took him to the clinic. We treated the wounds, did tests. We checked him again with another scanner — and suddenly he squeaked. A combination of numbers flashed on the screen. The assistant dialed the database and read the name: «Amber.» I sat down because my legs gave out. Because that was the name I had once given to my puppy, who had disappeared during a thunderstorm nine years ago.
On the screen were my old details: name, phone number, address. It was my dog. The same one. The one I had been looking for for weeks, putting up ads, and then learning to live with emptiness. He nuzzled his face into my c.h ℮st, and there was recognition in his eyes. Slow, deep, like coming home after a long journey.
I cr ìed, whispering his name. And he put his paw on my hand again—just like when we met under the stairs.
Amber stayed with me. The wounds healed slowly, but he started running again, bringing an old ball, and sleeping by my bed, sighing so deeply that it seemed to release years of pa ìn. I took the chain to a metal recycling center and asked for it to be melted down. I wanted none of its links to ever become a yo. ᶄe again.
A week later, the man called: “Did you take the dog? My brother left it to me, I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry…” I replied: “I got mine back.” And I hung up. Because the real solution wasn’t in the fi. gℎts. It was in Yantar being there again.
Now every morning he puts his paw on my knee, and I think: the biggest “b.o ḿb” in this story is not anger or rev. eחge. It’s the quiet word: “returned.”
➕
