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The cold that morning arrived without warning, quietly creeping into bone and breath. Snow fell steadily over the outskirts of Brightwater, softening sounds and cloaking the world in fragile stillness. It was the kind of winter day that whispered danger rather than announcing it.
In the front yard of a shuttered, abandoned house, a mother dog crouched against the cold. Her body curved protectively around four newborn puppies, barely more than two weeks old. They were so tiny that the snow beneath them remained mostly undisturbed. Each shallow breath mattered.
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