I came back from a trip to find Spirit’s stall empty. My 20-year-old horse, my friend since I was 13, was gone. No gate broken, no tracks—just gone.
I found Sky in the kitchen, calm, spreading butter on toast. “I sold him while you were away,” he said. “He was old anyway.” My heart sank.
I called stables, rescues, anyone, but no one had him—until I overheard Sky on the phone, laughing about the “money we made” to impress another woman. Rage and dread twisted together.
Using the information I found in his locked drawer, I traced Spirit to a rescue. He was alive, quiet, and waiting. I brought him home, safe and sound.
At dinner, I confronted Sky. His parents backed me; Sky had to apologize and repay me. I changed the locks the next day, made him leave, and reclaimed my life.
Spirit stood in his stall, ears flicking, home at last. I brushed him, fed him, and whispered, “You waited for me. And this time, no one’s taking you from me.”