It appeared three weeks ago outside the building

It appeared three weeks ago outside the building.

Ribs visible, no collar, same street corner,

circling like it was looking for something

with no name.

I kept walking past.

Then the rain. I couldn't leave it there.

Brought it inside without thinking,

like I was solving something, like I was

doing the right thing.

It walked straight to the rug by the window.

Not exploring. Not sniffing.

Just went there like it had been waiting

for permission to exist.

I watched it dry in patches—

still damp in the hollows of its ribs,

matted along the spine where the rain had settled,

the spot on the rug becoming its shape,

its proof, its test.

I didn't ask for this.

Didn't ask to become the person

this animal kept returning to,

didn't ask to be someone's reason to stay.

But now I check the window.

Now I notice when it moves.

Now I'm responsible for the thing

I didn't plan, the thing that followed me

and decided I was worth choosing.

I didn't want this. But here it is—

the dog, the rug, the way I've started

being someone's answer to a question

I never asked.