Mun didn’t know what a birthday was. She had no concept of time, of years passing, of celebrations. She only knew hunger, cold, and the endless cycle of searching for scraps. Today was no different from any other day. The sun rose, casting long, indifferent shadows, and the city woke to its usual cacophony. For Mun, it was just another day of survival.
She remembered nothing of her puppyhood. No warm milk, no playful littermates, no gentle hands to pet her. She was found alone, a tiny, shivering creature on a cold street. The world had been harsh from the start.
She scavenged for food in garbage bins, her ribs a stark outline against her thin body. People passed by, their eyes averted, their lives a world away from hers. She was invisible, a ghost in the bustling city. There were no kind words, no pats on the head, no one to offer her a scrap of warmth or kindness.
As the day wore on, the city began to quiet. The harsh, metallic sounds softened, replaced by the distant hum of traffic. Mun found a sheltered spot beneath a discarded cardboard box. It offered little protection from the cold, but it was a sanctuary of sorts. As she curled up, trying to conserve her warmth, she thought of nothing. There were no dreams, no hopes, no wishes. Just the endless cycle of survival.
Another day was ending, and with it, another chance at a different life. But for Mun, there was only the present moment, a constant battle against hunger and cold. Her birthday, if it was indeed a birthday, passed unnoticed, unmarked by anything but the relentless march of time.
