I WOKE UP TO FIND MY DOG STARING AT ME—AND THEN I SAW WHAT WAS UNDER THE BED (4 of 10)

So I made a choice. One I didn’t even fully understand yet. I told her she could stay. That I wouldn’t tell anyone. That she was safe here. And somehow… that seemed to be enough for her to crawl out.

She wore an oversized hoodie and mismatched socks. Her hair was tangled, and her cheeks were hollow, like she hadn’t eaten properly in a while. She looked like she had been running—or hiding—for a long time.

I made her toast and gave her some orange juice. Murphy stayed close to her, like he’d known her for years.

We didn’t talk much. She didn’t even tell me her name. She just sat at the kitchen table, holding the warm mug of tea I’d made, looking out the window like she was expecting someone to come crashing through it.

Later that day, I called in sick to work. Something about the situation felt too delicate to mess with.

Around noon, I gently asked again, “Do you want me to call anyone? A friend? Your parents?”

She shook her head quickly. “They don’t know. They can’t know.”

I wanted to press, but something in her eyes made me stop.

Over the next two days, she barely left the guest room except to eat. She slept a lot, with Murphy curled up next to her like a loyal guardian.