We Four
Image by Gemini AI Fiction Every evening, just before the streetlights came alive, they would gather outside my gate. First came the brown one with a torn ear. Then the limping black dog. Finally, the smallest, white with muddy patches, always keeping a respectful or suspicious distance until I spoke. “Come,” I would say. That was all they needed. Now they come without invitation. My house has become their home too. I don’t know their names. I never named them myself. Naming creates hope. Hope demands permanence. At 66, after a lifetime of losing people, I have learnt not to expect permanence from anyone. The neighbours said they were stray dogs. I knew better. I am a retired schoolteacher. For forty years I taught young minds that life rewarded honesty, hard work and patience. It was a lesson I believed with all my heart, even though my own life stubbornly refused to prove it. Failure never arrived dramatically. It seldom does. It came quietly, one poor decision at a t...
