She does not ask for much anymore.
Not a field to run through.
Not a ball to chase.
Not the bright world she once knew.
Now, Mara sits quietly against the wall, her cloudy eyes facing a room she can no longer see. One side of her body is wounded, raw, and painful. The skin that should have protected her is torn, and every movement reminds her that her body has been carrying more suffering than any gentle soul should have to bear.
But the deepest wound is not on her side.
It is in the way she waits.
Mara was not always like this. Once, she was the dog who ran ahead with joy, ears lifted, paws striking the ground as if the whole world belonged to her. She knew the sound of familiar footsteps. She knew the warmth of a hand resting on her head. She knew what it meant to make someone smile simply by wagging her tail.
Then time, sickness, and neglect began taking pieces of her life away.
Her sight faded first.
The light became shadows.
The shadows became darkness.
And when she could no longer see the people around her, she began to depend on something even more fragile: trust.
But trust is a dangerous thing for a wounded dog.
Because when Mara needed help most, the world looked away.
Her injury grew worse. Her body became tired. Her eyes, once full of light, turned pale and distant. People saw the wound. They saw the blindness. They saw an old, broken dog.
But they did not always see her.
They did not see the heart still waiting beneath all that pain.
Even now, Mara does not growl when someone comes close. She does not snap. She does not turn cruel because life has been cruel to her. She simply lowers her head, as if preparing herself for rejection before it happens.
As if she already knows what people think.
Too damaged.
Too old.
Too hard to love.
But Mara still hopes.
That is the part that hurts the most.
She still breathes like someone might come back. She still listens for a soft voice. She still leans slightly when a hand reaches near her, not fully trusting, but not giving up either.
All she wants is one gentle touch.
One whisper that tells her she is safe.
One kiss to prove that being blind and wounded has not made her unworthy of love.
Her body may heal with medicine, bandages, and time.
But her heart needs something different.
It needs someone who will not be afraid of her scars.
Someone who will sit beside her in the darkness.
Someone who will see what her eyes no longer can: that she is still beautiful, still loyal, still full of the same pure love she had before the world hurt her.
Mara is blind.
Mara is wounded.
But Mara is not empty.
She is still waiting.
For warmth.
For kindness.
For one person to bend down, kiss her tired face, and remind her that she was never too broken to be loved.
