Mila and Milu were identical, save for a tiny spot of brown on Milu’s left ear. They were inseparable, their tiny paws always tangled together. Today, however, their bond felt strained by an invisible force. It was their birthday.
They didn’t know how old they were. Time, in the shelter, was a meaningless concept. Days bled into nights, punctuated only by the rhythm of feedings and the occasional burst of human attention. But they knew today was different. The shelter workers had a strange softness in their eyes, and their voices were hushed. The other dogs seemed quieter too, their barks muffled by a sense of unspoken understanding.
Mila and Milu had no memory of a world outside these cold, metal cages. Their first conscious moments were filled with the cacophony of barking, the smell of disinfectant, and the cold hardness beneath their tiny paws. There was no soft fur to nuzzle, no warm body to curl against. Just the harsh reality of their existence.
Today, the absence of their mother was a gaping wound. They missed her, a longing that ached in their small bodies. They remembered the warmth of her milk, the comforting rhythm of her heartbeat, and the gentle licks that cleaned their faces. Now, there was only the cold, sterile silence of the shelter.
As the day wore on, their whimpers grew into sobs. They huddled together, their tiny bodies trembling. The world was a cruel place, and they were two lost puppies, clinging to each other for warmth and comfort. They didn’t know what a birthday was supposed to be like, but they knew this wasn’t it.
The shelter lights dimmed, casting long, eerie shadows. Mila and Milu curled into a tight ball, their cries echoing in the quiet night. Outside, the world continued to turn, indifferent to their plight. But inside the shelter, two tiny hearts ached with a loneliness that was as vast as the universe.
Tomorrow was another day, and with it, another chance. But for now, as the first birthday of their lives slipped away, Mila and Milu were lost in a world of darkness and despair.
