Children Under Fate’s Watch
At the edge of endless woodlands, where the wind howled as if mourning lost souls, stood a small village. There, in a house behind an old oak fence, lived Thomas Whitmore, a lonely mechanic at the local sawmill. His days were hard—raising two children, Emily and Edward, alone. If not for his kind neighbor, elderly Margaret Hargrove, he’d have been torn between work and his children’s future.
Young Emily, a slight girl with wide eyes, never spoke. Doctors shrugged, suggesting they wait until she turned seven—if no miracle came, she’d be sent to a special facility. She clung to Edward, who, though only a year older, understood her without words. Afraid to be parted, they skipped nursery, spending their days in the yard under the watch of Thunder, their enormous guard dog. His bark rattled windows, and his fierce gaze kept strangers at bay. Yet with the children, he was gentle, letting them ride his broad back or hide in his kennel.
Thomas often saw Emily whispering into Thunder’s ear. The dog listened intently, as if grasping every word, answering with a nudge or a lick that made her giggle. Deep down, Thomas believed in their silent bond—one beyond explanation.
Margaret, weary with age, often sighed, *”You need a wife, Thomas. I won’t be around forever, and those children need proper care. This house needs a woman’s touch.”* Her words echoed, but Thomas waved them off, certain no one could replace his children’s mother.
One autumn evening, an old friend, Michael, visited. They talked late, and on his way home, Thomas stopped at the village pub, where he met Anna—a woman with tired but kind eyes. Her warm smile stayed with him.
Anna was alone, having moved after her husband’s death in a distant accident. She had no children, her life quiet and unnoticed. Thomas began visiting the pub often, walking Anna home to her little room in an old cottage. Their meetings grew warmer, and soon, he invited her over.
She arrived with toys and sweets, spending the day reading stories and drawing pictures. The children adored her—but Thunder growled low, distrustful. Anna offered him a treat, but he turned away. *”He’ll come around,”* Thomas said, hiding unease.
By New Year’s, Anna moved in. They married, and she left the pub to manage the house. It gleamed under her care—floors polished, windows spotless. For the first time in years, Thomas felt peace. But Anna, used to freedom, soon resented motherhood. The children’s constant needs wore her patience thin. She missed evenings with friends, missed her old careless life.
Her mask slipped. She snapped at the children, locking them in the cold cellar for minor missteps, threatening Edward into silence. Terrified, they fled to Thunder, who shielded them with his body, snarling if Anna came near.
She begged Thomas to get rid of the dog. He refused. *”He stays. Just keep your distance.”*
Poisoning Thunder crossed her mind—but the dog refused her food, baring his teeth whenever she approached.
When Thomas was away, Anna hosted loud gatherings—food, drink, music shaking the house. Hungry and tearful, the children hid in Thunder’s kennel, the high fence shielding them from prying eyes.
Then, during a mushroom hunt, Anna found an abandoned quarry with a rusted trailer. A cruel plan took root.
One October night, after Thomas left on business, Anna dressed the children in thin clothes and led them to the village, playing the doting stepmother. But back home, she locked them in the cellar until dark. Drunk on courage, she marched them to the quarry, bound them in the freezing trailer, and left them to die.
Returning home, she staged a scene—toys scattered, beds unmade. By dawn, she’d raise the alarm, let the frost do the rest. But Thunder howled like never before. Straining, he dragged his kennel, broke free, and vanished into the night.
Truck driver James, driving home, nearly hit a massive dog lunging at his headlights. Then he saw a woman in a white dress, dark hair dripping, pointing toward the woods. The dog barked, darting ahead.
Following, James found the trailer—and inside, the frozen children. He freed them, wrapped them in his coat, and sped to the police. Edward told them everything.
Officers arrived at Thomas’s house. Thunder, for once, didn’t attack—just growled toward Anna. James recognized him. Inside, they found Anna drunk, her lies crumbling under questioning.
*”Describe the woman who led you,”* an officer asked.
James pointed to a portrait on the wall. *”Her.”*
The neighbors went still. Thomas, returning early, paled. *”That’s Mary—my first wife. She drowned three years ago.”*
As Anna was dragged away, begging mercy, Thunder lunged, sinking teeth into her leg. Thomas held the dog close, weeping.
That winter, red roses bloomed on Mary’s grave—like embers guarding the children she’d protected from beyond.
