Van was a shadow, a silent observer of the bustling life that surrounded him. He was a medium-sized dog, with fur the color of autumn leaves, and eyes that held a depth of sadness that belied his age. He lived in a large house, but it felt like a cavernous emptiness.
Today was Van’s birthday. He didn’t know this, of course. Birthdays were for humans, for cakes and candles and wishes. He was a dog, and his days were marked by the rhythm of meals, walks, and the occasional pat on the head. But today, even the routine seemed to have slipped away.
The house was filled with the usual morning cacophony: the shrill ring of the alarm, the clatter of dishes, the sharp voices raised in argument. But there was nothing for Van. No excited greeting, no scratch behind the ears. He was invisible, a piece of furniture with four legs.
The day wore on. The family members came and went, their lives a blur of activity that excluded him. He watched them from the corner of his eye, their faces etched with indifference. There was no warmth in their gaze, no flicker of recognition. He was just a dog, a necessary evil, a living thing that took up space.
As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows that seemed to mimic his own loneliness, Van found a quiet spot by the back door. He curled up, his tail tucked between his legs. The house was still, the only sound the ticking of the clock. It was a world of silence, a world where he was alone.
No one remembered his birthday. No one cared. He was just Van, a dog, a shadow in a world that had forgotten how to love. And as the night enveloped him, he closed his eyes, dreaming of a place where he was wanted, where he was loved, where birthdays were celebrated with joy and affection.
