When we found her, she was barely more than a shadow. A fragile, broken shape curled on a blanket like she’d already accepted the end. Her legs were raw with infection, her fur thin and crusted with blood and scabs. Her face—once likely soft and bright—was swollen and sealed shut with pain.
But she still tried to purr.
That sound—weak, ragged, and coming from a place no one had touched with kindness in a long time—broke something in me.
She didn’t meow.
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