When the night grew long and quiet, the little boy sat by the window, watching for headlights that never came. He knew better than to cry — foxes don’t cry, they listen. He listened to the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock, the way the wind pressed its face against the glass. The world felt too big, but the Fox inside him whispered, “Be still. Not every return is late — some are just longer journeys.”
So he waited, patient as the moonlight, clever enough to know love always finds its way back home.