The Old Dog Turned North…

  But who was he?

  In a time long past, when the old dog was neither young nor yet broken—his wounds still raw—

  he headed north, to lose himself in the snowy mountains.

  He had lost his companion, had two pups, and a world beyond repair.

  The fire of life had gone out in him.

  In life, there are things that stir the blood.

  Acts that draw strength from deep within and bring breath back to your body—

  a sudden urge that lifts you up.

  If you're a predator, you know that feeling when prey trembles;

  the ragged breaths and the pounding heartbeat intoxicate you.

  When you’re chasing down a life not your own, the wildness, the danger, it fills you with energy—

  as if something is breathed into you.

  But if you are not a predator, the world feels different.

  In youth, it’s dreams, longings, and the hunger to reach that drive you forward.

  The twists in the path, the wounds, the discoveries—all of them exciting—

  and that very turmoil becomes your drive.

  But as youth fades, everything begins to shift.

  Experiences pile up—sorrows, victories, achievements, and losses.

  And slowly, the world loses its freshness.

  When you’ve survived too many battles—when the cycle of life becomes clear to you—

  that’s when the danger of falling begins.

  You grow weary, and slowly sink into a swamp of sorrow...

  unless you love something—or someone.

  Then, that love becomes breath in every moment, and you keep on living.

  And that great force is breathed into you.

  The middle-aged dog had lost that force, and with no will left to carry on, he wandered alone and confused through the snow.

  But an image accompanied him.

  A yellow dog with amber eyes ran beside him on the distant plain—joyful, free—and then, at once, he saw her body...

  Wounded. Lifeless. Lying beneath a poplar tree.

  A place where he had not been—where he had failed to protect his companion, or die beside her.

  He didn’t even know which predator had taken her life.

  And that wound—the not being there, the not knowing—gnawed at the edges of his soul.

  He wanted to go further;

  Perhaps the blizzard that was coming...

  ...would silence the storm inside him with his death.

  So he went on.

  Until he caught a scent. He ignored it. Took another step. And then it flooded his entire being.

  He wanted to turn back, but he couldn’t.

  He scratched the ground and barked, again and again—but it was useless; the scent wouldn’t let him go.

  There was nothing but snow; his gray body was lost beneath its whiteness.

  He followed the scent...

  Where are you going? Turn back. / Maybe someone needs help—go! / I've helped enough... but who ever helped me?

  He saw her—a she-dog, whiter than snow, wounded, lifeless.

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  He stood beside her for a moment. Smelled her.

  Dead. Let her go.

  He wanted solitude. He was sad. Tired. But fate wouldn’t let him go.

  He turned his head, ready to walk into the blizzard.

  Then he heard a faint sound. What was it?

  Just leave it. Let the wind carry that sound away—like it’s done with a thousand others.

  Someone’s alive. Run.

  He turned back fast, sniffed deeper at the snow, the white dog—and there it was: a child, alone, curled beneath the mother's throat. He froze.

  The pup was tiny, already freezing. The middle-aged dog jolted awake inside.

  He barked—once, twice, hard—to clear the cold from his throat. Then he grabbed the pup and ran toward the forest.

  He hadn’t gone far when he stopped. His eyes were wet.

  He turned back to the lifeless mother—and pressed his life into hers.

  He let the pup touch her mouth one last time—let the final traces of her breath enter the child’s life.

  It was a farewell he himself had once longed for—and never received.

  There was no time left for grief—he had to run. So he ran, with all he had.

  His breath turned to steam, warming the pup's tiny body.

  But the pup’s heartbeat grew fainter and fainter. His body was warmer—but his heart, weaker.

  What have you done, life, that he must leave his mother to survive?

  What kind of fate is this—that it must be so cruel?

  What kind of world is this, that drags life out from the depths of death?

  The middle-aged dog understood, clearly, what he had to do.

  To save this tiny heart, he would have to give himself completely.

  And so he did.

  He held the pup gently in his mouth,

  but carried him deeper—in his soul.

  And in that moment,

  he was no longer middle-aged. He had become the old dog.

  The fire of life returned to him, and like the wind, he raced into the depths of the forest...

  He reached a place where a faint sunlight touched the earth—a pale warmth, but enough to survive.

  That was his home:

  Sheltered by a great stone, beside a fallen tree.

  His children were there, huddled together—when he arrived.

  The girl had leaned her head against “Sun” to stay warm.

  When they saw their father, both stood up and barked.

  The girl's bark was harsher, louder—it carried her fear of being left behind.

  But suddenly, she fell quiet. Her bristled fur smoothed down.

  She saw a pup in her father's mouth—with a strange look.

  Was he white with black spots? Or black with white?

  She was stunned. She didn’t know what to do.

  The old dog set the pup down.

  “Sun” pulled him into his arms, licked him gently, and tucked him beneath his neck to keep him warm.

  The girl lay down too, resting her head on her brother’s neck.

  The old dog lay down beside them, emptied from within.

  And this was the beginning of our Unbounded's story.

  The journey continues in Part 7 — where the girl bares her teeth… and takes her first bite

  And instead, he found a pup.

  But something—perhaps love, perhaps instinct, perhaps defiance—kept him still.

  It waits, silent and buried, beneath someone else’s need.

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