The rain was falling hard that night, washing the streets clean and blurring the city lights into long, trembling reflections. I was exhausted—physically, emotionally, in every possible way. After weeks of trying, hoping, and failing, I finally whispered to myself, It’s over. I turned my back and began to walk away, each step heavier than the last.
But then I heard it.
A faint sound, barely louder than the rain. A cry. Weak, trembling, and desperate.
I stopped.
For a moment, I argued with myself. I had already done all I could. I had nothing left to give. If I turned around again, I might break completely. So I took one more step forward, convincing myself to keep going. That was when something strange happened—my chest tightened, my heart racing as if it refused to let me go.
Something pulled me back.
I turned around and followed the sound into a dark alley, my shoes splashing through cold puddles. There, curled up against a broken box, was you. Small, soaked, and shaking. Your eyes met mine, filled with fear but also a tiny spark of hope. In that moment, I understood. It wasn’t over—not yet.
I knelt down, ignoring the rain and the cold, gently lifting you into my arms. You were lighter than I expected, fragile, yet stubbornly alive. As I held you close, you let out a soft sigh, as if you knew you were finally safe. My exhaustion faded, replaced by a quiet determination.
The walk back felt different. The rain no longer seemed cruel, and the darkness didn’t feel so heavy. With every step, I felt stronger, like saving you was somehow saving a part of myself too.
Later, wrapped in warmth and light, you slept peacefully for the first time. I watched your chest rise and fall and felt tears slip down my face. I thought it was over. I truly did.
But some endings are just beginnings in disguise. And that night, whatever pulled me back didn’t just save you—it reminded me why I couldn’t give up.
