The streets of Merlo can be cruel, especially to those who are small, defenseless, and invisible to the world. Among the countless forgotten souls struggling to survive, there was one tiny figure lying motionless on the cold, unforgiving ground.
His body, a fragile frame of skin and bones, barely showed signs of life. His breaths were faint, his pulse weak, his eyes half-open as though he had already surrendered to the darkness.
Dibu was just six months old, but life had already tested him beyond measure. He had known nothing but suffering—days without food, nights without shelter, and a constant battle against dehydration and anemia that ravaged his frail body.
His strength had faded long ago, and now, he teetered on the edge of life and death, as if he no longer had the will to fight.
Yet fate had other plans for Dibu.
The moment I saw him, a wave of urgency washed over me. There was no time to hesitate. He needed help—immediate, unwavering help—or he wouldn’t make it through the night. I scooped his fragile body into my arms, feeling how terrifyingly light he was.
It was as if I were holding nothing more than air and bones. His ribs protruded sharply beneath his dull, matted fur, a painful reminder of how long he had been starving.