Who’s at the Window?

My aunt once told me she never liked dogs because they demanded too much attention. “They always need something,” she’d say. But I don’t think she ever met every dog. Some do bark for company, sure—but not Bruno. He was a small brown mass of gentleness, patience, and quiet understanding. This story is about him—how he found me one cold, misty Sunday morning in November, and how that day began to piece my life back together.

At first, I thought the sound I heard was part of a dream—a faint scratching that seemed to come from nowhere. I was still half-asleep, buried under the warmth of the blanket, when it came again. Scritch… scritch. I opened one eye, confused. “Who scratches just once?” I murmured, dragging myself upright. The clock glowed 6:17 a.m. Too early for visitors, especially out here in the middle of nowhere.

I slipped into my old gray sweater and shuffled to the window. The glass was fogged over, the world outside a blur of pale blue light. I wiped a small circle clear with my palm. Nothing. No person, no car. Only the frost-covered trees and the thick fog creeping up from the field.

“Huh. Must be the wind,” I muttered and turned to go back to bed.

Then it came again—fainter this time, but distinct. Scritch… tap…

Something in the sound made my heart jump. I moved closer to the door and peered through the narrow pane beside it. That’s when I saw him—a small, mud-streaked dog sitting just beneath the window, shivering slightly, his eyes fixed on the door as if waiting for an answer.

“Oh, you poor thing,” I whispered, opening the door. “Hey there, little guy. Are you lost?”

He wagged his tail once, cautiously, like he wasn’t sure if it was allowed. Then he stayed perfectly still, looking up at me with quiet eyes. He didn’t bark, didn’t try to run inside. He just waited.

“Come on, it’s okay,” I said softly, kneeling down.

He limped forward, his paws leaving faint prints on the wooden porch, and gently sniffed my hand before pressing his nose against it. His fur was rough, cold to the touch, and there were tiny scratches along his side. He must have been on his own for a while.

“Bruno,” I said suddenly. “You look like a Bruno.”

He blinked, tail thumping once, as if the name fit.

Inside, I poured some milk into a small bowl and tore up a slice of bread. He ate quietly, then sat beside me, resting his chin on my knee. I reached down to stroke him, and for the first time in weeks, I felt something soften inside me.

Since my aunt passed, the house had felt unbearably empty. I’d been drifting—sleeping through days, ignoring the phone, barely eating. Everything reminded me of her laugh, her stories, the way she used to fill this place with noise. After the funeral, the silence had become a kind of fog I couldn’t find my way out of.

But Bruno didn’t seem to mind the silence. He filled it differently—with small sounds: the soft rhythm of his breathing, the tap of his nails on the floor, the occasional sigh as he settled near my feet. He didn’t ask for anything more than to be close.

That morning, after he’d finished eating, I stood up and looked around the kitchen. Dishes piled in the sink. Dust on the counter. The air heavy with stillness. And then, without thinking much about it, I decided to clean.

I showered. I changed into fresh clothes. I drove into town, bought groceries and dog food. I told myself I’d leave Bruno outside while I was gone—if he was still there when I got back, then maybe I’d keep him.

When I pulled into the driveway an hour later, he was waiting right where I’d left him, tail wagging slowly, eyes bright with recognition. I knelt down and laughed—an unexpected, honest laugh that felt strange in my throat. “Well, Bruno,” I said, “looks like you’re staying.”

And that’s how it began—the quiet companionship, the healing I didn’t know I needed. Bruno didn’t rescue me in a grand way; he simply stayed. Through silent mornings and long nights, through grief and guilt and the slow work of living again.

He never demanded a thing—only offered presence. And sometimes, that’s all it takes to find your way home again.