The Whispering Wind

The wind is quiet tonight, but its absence is a recent thing. The hum of its whispers through the old sycamore is still fresh in my mind.

Luna’s bed is empty. She’s curled on Hunter’s instead, nose tucked under her tail.

I’ve checked every corner of the house. Hunter’s not here, though his leash still hangs by the door. Just to be sure, I check the yard. The fence is intact, the gate latched, and no pawprints mar the dew-kissed grass.

When I return, Luna is awake, her ears flicking as if catching a faint sound I cannot hear. As I stroke her, my fingers brush against something rough beneath her chest—his leash, coiled tightly.

***

The wind has started again. It’s soft but persistent, tugging at the curtains like a hand too shy to enter.

I sit by the fire, the warmth barely reaching my skin. Luna rests by my feet, her eyes fixed on the empty space near the door.

Hunter’s leash is draped across the back of a chair now. Its leather is still damp, though it hasn’t left the house in days.

I can feel the weight of memories here, the kind that cling to shadows. Hunter’s playful bark, the way his tail wagged like it could move the earth itself. But there’s something else, too—a presence that feels both familiar and strange.

I glance at Luna. Her gaze hasn’t wavered.

There’s a photo album on the coffee table. On a whim, I open it, flipping to a picture of the two of them chasing each other across the meadow last spring. The memory feels so vivid, I can almost hear their laughter.

I swipe to a video on my phone, something I’d recorded that same day. In it, Luna bounds through the tall grass, her eyes bright and her movements full of joy. She stops, crouches, then leaps forward.

But she’s alone.

Hunter isn’t there.

***

The wind has grown louder now, a voice rising above the quiet. Luna lifts her head, her ears perked. I don’t need to look to know what she’s staring at.

The door is still closed, but the handle is cold beneath my hand.