The grass was taller than he was.
It brushed against his face as he crouched low, every sound feeling louder than it should. The wind moved gently, but to him it sounded like something approaching. Something bigger. Something dangerous.
He had only been alive for a handful of days.
Long enough to feel warmth.
Long enough to feel hunger.
Long enough to learn that safety doesn’t always stay.
Somewhere behind him, there was supposed to be a mother. A heartbeat he could follow. A body to curl into when the night turned cold. But all he had now was the earth beneath his paws and a world that felt far too wide.
His eyes were still learning how to focus, but fear came naturally.
He froze when a shadow passed. Not because he knew what it was—but because instinct told him to wait. To be small. To survive. His breath slowed. His body pressed into the grass as if the ground itself could protect him.
This is how innocence learns fear.
Not through words.
Not through lessons.
But through absence.
In another life, he would be chasing insects, stumbling over his own feet, learning how to play before learning how to fight. In another life, this moment would be nothing more than a pause between naps.
But nature doesn’t promise fairness.
It only offers chances.
And so he waits.
Each second feels like a decision the universe hasn’t made yet. Will he be found? Will he be forgotten? Will the world be gentle—or will it demand strength before he’s ready to give it?
The grass sways again.
He lifts his head just slightly. Not enough to be seen. Just enough to hope.
Because even at the very beginning of life, when fear is louder than comfort, something inside him still believes this:
That survival is possible.
That safety might return.
That this moment is not the end of his story.