Ava Murbarger

     Finally, Lupus. Home.

     Snow extends for miles around me, dotted by quaint cabins made up of thick logs and trees with green needles that stand strong in defiance against the bitter cold of winter. The sky is painted with brilliant clouds, not gray but not quite white, misting me with a thousand tiny flakes. Torches provide light to the villages afar off, but I’m not drawn to the warmth of their fire.

     The cold suits me just fine.

     A gentle breeze plays with my thick fur, and my pointed ears twitch, flicking off white powder that quickly gathers there again. I lift my snout towards the sky and take a deep breath, soaking it all in. My tail, wet from dragging through the snow, wags back and forth happily. I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.

     And despite my joy in being in this wonderful place, I can’t help but acknowledge the fact that this must be a dream. Never have I been so happy or carefree. When I wake from this dream, I’ll be thrown back into the nightmare planet that’s been my home for years now.

     I enjoy the fragile peace while I can.