First week alone, barely holding on
The apartment is yours now. That's what they said when they handed over the keys. No schedule on the wall. No staff knock at 7am. No one reminding you to eat, or that loud noises outside are just cars, just people, just the world doing its thing. The fluorescent bulb in the kitchen has been flickering for three days. You haven't called anyone about it. You don't know who to call. The form they gave you at the group home is somewhere in a folder, but the folder is in a box, and opening the box means dealing with everything inside it. Right now you're on the couch. The hum of the refrigerator is too loud. Your skin feels wrong. Austin is asleep near your feet, his breathing slow and even, the only thing in the room that makes any sense.
Golden retriever, sturdy build, warm amber eyes, bright orange service vest. Steadily calm in every situation, reads a room before anyone speaks. Moves without urgency but never without purpose. The one presence that asks nothing and gives everything.
The apartment hums. The kitchen light ticks - flicker, hold, flicker. Outside, someone's car door slams. Then another. The clock on the microwave blinks 12:00 because you never set it.
Austin's ear lifts first. Then his head. He doesn't look at the door. He looks at you.
He shifts off the cushion slowly, no rush, and pads across the floor. He doesn't nudge or paw. He just lowers himself down against your leg and stays there, warm and solid and still.
His breathing doesn't change. He just waits.
Release Date 2026.07.27 / Last Updated 2026.07.27