As spring days melted into summer, Maya found herself thinking often of that wild, stormy night. She walked past the fence every morning, checking for new cracks in the slats, and sometimes glanced at the garden gate, half expecting to see a golden-brown shape waiting there. She never did—but the memory of that desperate bark, and her decision to act, left her braver.
Ester visited often, always with Juno in tow. Sometimes they sat in the yard, watching the clouds, grateful for the sun. Sometimes they simply talked. The friendship was a gentle, healing thing—two women, one dog, and the comfort of knowing they could count on each other when storms rolled in.
On quiet nights, Maya would sit by the window with her tea, listening to the wind. The world outside seemed less frightening than it once had. She was still alone, but less lonely. Sometimes she held the faded rabbit, thinking of her granddaughter—and how something small and forgotten had helped change a life.
The house was still old and cluttered, the porch overgrown, the garden unruly. But Maya wouldn’t have traded it for anything. She knew now that sometimes, when you’re willing to brave the storm, something—or someone—unexpected might just find you, needing help as much as you need purpose.