Kraton Kush

In the heart of the old city, under the biting chill of winter, a lone dog sat by the stone steps of an abandoned building. Its fur was matted with snow, and its eyes, tired and hollow, gazed down the deserted street. The once-bustling town now lay still, its silence broken only by the soft crunch of snow under the wind. The dog shivered, not just from the cold, but from the loneliness that gnawed at it. Once, it had a home, a family, but now all that remained was the harsh reality of survival in a world that had forgotten it.

The city, with its crumbling facades and dimming lights, seemed to mirror the dog’s own fading hope. Each day was a waiting game—waiting for a familiar face that never came, waiting for warmth that seemed lost in the endless winter. Yet, even in the depths of abandonment, the dog remained, a silent guardian of the past, holding on to the last memory of a life once lived. Amid the frost, there was still a small, unspoken hope—that perhaps one day, the door would open again, and the warmth would return.