At dawn, as Aurora’s first light brushed the sky, I walked to my garden with a clenched jaw and weary heart.

Each morning brought new ruin—carrots gnawed, lettuce shredded, bean vines severed cleanly. I set traps and cameras, convinced some cunning creature—a fox, raccoon, or deer—was outwitting me nightly.

But the truth was far closer to home.

Runa, my dog, had grown distant since losing her litter. Once wild and joyful, she now slept alone in the barn, silent and still. When she failed to appear one morning, unease took root. I grabbed a biscuit and followed my worry into the barn.

The light inside was dim, dust swirling like secrets in the air. And then—I heard it. A whimper. Not of pain, but of something delicate and desperate.

Behind the crates, I found her.

Runa, curled around two tiny baby rabbits, guarding them like they were her own.

They were helpless, eyes still closed, chests rising gently beneath her fur. She looked up at me—protective, pleading, proud.

And in that moment, I realized: the thief I’d been hunting hadn’t been stealing. She’d been saving.