The Omen and the Hearth

Dark clouds moved across the sky, swallowing the moon. As its light faded, shadows marched forward like an army, stretching far until they reached Pluto, who was returning home along the slum road. He glanced upward and muttered, “Looks like it’s going to rain.”

But as his eyes dropped back to the horizon, he froze. In the distance, a figure was walking toward him. The air seemed to shiver. Dogs barked, crows scattered, and the man advanced as though he commanded the shadows themselves. He looked like an omen carved from night.

Pluto’s chest tightened when their eyes met. The man’s gaze was calm—kind even—but so heavy that Pluto felt trapped between fear and stillness. For a moment, time itself seemed to stop. Then, as they passed one another, the world exhaled and motion returned.

Pluto had only taken a few steps when the man’s voice cracked like thunder. “Boy!” The sky split open and rain poured down. “Have we met before?”

Pluto trembled. He wanted to turn, to answer, but fear gripped his tongue. Finally, he forced out, “No… we haven’t.”

The man chuckled softly, though the sound carried a weight. “I think we will meet again. For some reason… Run along. Not all have as much time as you.”

When Pluto dared to look back, the man had vanished into darkness. The moon broke free from the clouds, shining once more.

Pluto hurried home, soaked and shaken. Inside the one-room shelter, his dog Alex perked his head up from the corner where his grandmother lay on her bed. Pluto pressed a finger to his lips, and the dog lowered his head again.

Wiping his hair with a towel, Pluto lit the stove. He opened a can of food, cracked an egg, and began making an omelet. Despite the storm, a quiet smile glowed on his face.

His grandmother stirred awake at the sound of his cooking. She turned her head, eyes heavy with years, and watched him for a moment before coughing. Pluto rushed to her side, holding a glass of water to her lips. She sipped between coughs, then breathed easier.

“Where were you all these days?” she asked weakly.

“Just… wanted to bring you food,” Pluto replied.

She held his hand, tears welling in her eyes. “I couldn’t give you anything since the day you were born. You were a gift from God, but I was too weak to raise you right. I think… He overestimated me.”

Pluto smiled gently. “Or maybe I was the greatest gift you could have ever given me.”

Before she could answer, Alex barked. Pluto turned to see smoke rising from the stove. The omelet had burned. He cursed under his breath, salvaged what little he could, and placed half the food on a plate for his grandmother and the other half in Alex’s bowl.

As he fed his grandmother, she managed only a few spoons before insisting, “Have you eaten?”

“Yes,” Pluto lied, though his stomach growled loudly. She smiled, comforted, and whispered, “I’m full. Let me sleep.”

He laid her back gently. Then he lay on the floor, Alex curling up against his chest. With the storm still raging outside, the three of them drifted into a fragile, quiet sleep