Milo didn’t know his age, let alone his birthday. Time was a blur of hunger, cold, and the constant search for warmth. He was a small, shivering creature, his world limited to the confines of a cardboard box. His mother had been his everything, his protector, his provider. But she was gone now, vanished without a trace.
Today, as the first rays of sunlight pierced the darkness, a pang of loneliness washed over him. It was as if the world had conspired to make this day particularly harsh. He missed his mother’s warmth, the comforting rhythm of her heartbeat, the gentle nudge that signaled feeding time.
He remembered the day she left, a cold, unforgiving night. He had whimpered, his tiny voice lost in the cacophony of the city. But she didn’t return, and with her absence, a part of him died. He was alone, a small, vulnerable creature in a world that offered no mercy.
As the day wore on, Milo wandered the streets, his belly aching with hunger. People passed by, their lives a world away from his. He was invisible, a shadow in their bustling world. He longed for a touch of kindness, a warm meal, a safe place to sleep. But the city was a harsh mistress, offering little in the way of compassion.
As the sun began its descent, casting long, mournful shadows, Milo retreated to his cardboard box. The world was a symphony of noise, but to him, it was a desolate silence. He curled up, his small body trembling. It was his birthday, a day marked by loss and loneliness. There were no presents, no celebrations, no one to share his special day with. Just the cold, hard reality of his existence.
