Shadows in the Light

My apartment door squeaks as I push it open, my whole mind still trying to figure out what could have happened before I met this massive black dog that's now right beside me. His warmth presses into my side as he leans closer to me, even slightly brushing against me.

Every step we took through the foggy streets of Crescent Bay made me extremely tired. My arms burn from supporting his bulk. He's heavy and wounded, but he limps on his own, persistent and silent.

Now we're inside, out of the cold, but the strangeness of everything settles hard in my chest.

The air inside smells faintly of coffee, dust, and antiseptic. The whole place is cluttered with books piled on every surface, yesterday's sandwich still abandoned on the counter, but it's my space. I live here. I survive here. I fix myself here. The thought steadies me as I help Shadow, the name I gave him in my heart, lower himself onto a blanket I spread out over an old tarpaulin in one corner of the living room.

He makes a deep rumbling sound as he collapses onto his side. Blood still quietly seeps from the worst wounds, soaking into the layers of fabric. His silver eyes flick to me, still alert, still watching, still not trusting.

There's intelligence behind that gaze, something that feels almost human. I ignore it, focus instead on pulling off my jacket and snapping open my emergency kit.

"Alright, Shadow," I say, squatting beside him. "Let's get you stitched up. You didn't hurt me out there, so stay calm here too."

The gloves snap onto my hands, the sound louder in the silence. My fingers move automatically, muscle memory guiding me through a process I've done hundreds of times.

But this is different.

The wounds are different. Now I can see them clearly under the light of my floor lamp, and my stomach tightens. The cuts are deep, very deep, but very clean also. Not the struggles from a dogfight. Not the chaotic mess from a car accident. These are precise.

Someone did this to him.

The thought sends a jolt through me. I swallow it down and begin rinsing the wounds with saline, watching the blood thin and drip across the blanket. Shadow doesn't flinch. He doesn't whimper or growl. He just watches me with those steady eyes. It should be comforting, but it's not. It's unsettling. He's too calm.

I dab antiseptic onto the worst of the gashes. The tissue is inflamed but already starting to knit together in places. That doesn't make sense. These injuries are hours old at most, and yet some of the smaller lacerations are healing like days have passed. My brain pushes back. Adrenaline, maybe. Genetics. Some healing ability. I tell myself there has to be a reason, but the truth is, I've never seen anything like it.

"You're a weird one," I murmur, more to myself than to him.

I reach for the suture kit. My hands are steady as I thread the needle and begin stitching the largest wound along his flank. The skin pulls cleanly together, the needle sliding through with practiced ease.

He still doesn't move. His breathing is shallow but steady, like he's holding still on purpose. Most animals would be trembling, fighting me, snarling. But Shadow doesn't. He watches every stitch with those silver eyes like he understands what I'm doing.

"You're letting me do this with ease," I say under my breath. "That's unusual, you know?"

I finish the last stitch and tie it off, then press gauze over the wound before wrapping it in clean bandages. My knees ache from kneeling, but I stay there a moment longer, studying him. The way he lies, the way he holds himself, even the way he blinks his eyes, it's all too controlled. It's not just the pain that's keeping him still. It feels like he's intentionally choosing not to react.

I set the used supplies aside and grab a bowl from the kitchen. I fill it with water and place it beside him. He lifts his head and begins to drink slowly.

I sink back onto the floor, leaning against the couch, trying to settle my thoughts. It's past one in the morning. The apartment is quiet except for the sound of his lapping and the soft creak of the old floorboards.

My body is drained, but my mind won't stop turning.

Who would hurt a dog like this?

What was he doing in that alley?

Why the deep clean cuts?

And why did he look at me like he was studying me?

That last thought makes my chest tighten, and I try to shake it. I've been through a long shift before encountering this. I'm exhausted. My brain is filling in blanks and thinking just as it feels like.

I pull the thin blanket over him, tucking it gently around his injured side. His fur is coarse and still damp in places. As I run my fingers through it, I feel that odd sense of calm again. Like his presence quiets something in me, something I didn't know was loud.

"You'll be alright," I whisper. "You're safe here."

He closes his eyes, and for the first time since I found him, he relaxes. His body goes slack. His breathing deepens. He trusts me, like he understood. That realization fills me with something I can't quite name. I'm used to patching up strays. I'm used to being alone. But this feels different. Like he's not just here to be saved, like he's here for a reason.

I push myself to my feet, my joints cracking as I stretch. The weight of the day hits me all at once, and I glance around my messy apartment. My eyes catch on the photo tucked behind the lamp on my side table. My parents, smiling. Both gone now. The loneliness I live with every day flares up sharp and hot, but I don't look away.

I turn back to Shadow. He's asleep now, or at least pretending to be. His ears twitch when I move, but he doesn't open his eyes. I wonder what kind of life he had before today. Where he came from. Who let this happen to him. And most of all, I wonder why he feels so familiar. Like I've known him longer than a few hours.

Tomorrow, I'll take him to the clinic. I'll scan for a microchip. Run blood tests. Try to make sense of what's going on. There has to be an explanation, even if it doesn't fit the usual mold. I'll figure it out. I always do.

I grab a pillow and collapse onto the couch, too tired to make it to the bed. My eyelids droop. I tell myself I'll only rest for a minute. But the moment I close my eyes, all I can see are his silver eyes. Watching. Waiting. Knowing something I don't.

I want to believe this is just a fluke. Just an injured dog and a vet too tired to think clearly.

But somehow, I feel like I've stepped into something I don't understand. Something I won't understand.