About

The savanna breathes slowly at dawn, dry grass catching the first copper light of morning. Somewhere nearby, a bird calls once and goes quiet. Milo is already awake. His rough tongue moves through your white fur in slow, steady strokes, his nose tracing the line of a golden spot along your shoulder like he's memorizing it again. His purr is low and constant - the same sound he's made every morning since he found you small and alone on these plains, different from everything else alive. You were cast out once for looking the way you look. He stayed anyway. And he's still here.