Children Under Fate’s Protection
In a quiet village on the edge of endless woods, where the wind howled like it was mourning lost souls, lived a lonely man named William Thompson. His spacious house, fenced by an old oak barrier, was usually silent except for the voices of his two children, Emily and James. A mechanic at the local timber mill, William’s life was far from easy—he raised the children alone, bearing the weight of every daily struggle. His trips for equipment and parts took him away often, and if not for his kind neighbour, old Mrs. Margaret Palmer, he’d have had to choose between his work and his children’s future.
Young Emily, a slender girl with large, expressive eyes, never spoke. Doctors shrugged, advising patience until she turned seven, but if no miracle occurred, they’d need to send her to a special school. Emily clung to her older brother James, who, though only a year her senior, understood her without words. Their bond was unbreakable, so they never attended nursery, fearing separation. Instead, they spent their days in the yard under the watchful guard of their loyal companion—a massive dog named Thunder. His deep bark echoed through the village, rattling windows, and his fierce gaze kept strangers at bay. Thunder obeyed only William and Mrs. Palmer, but with the children, he was gentle—patient, loving, letting them climb into his kennel or ride on his broad back.
William often noticed Emily whispering into Thunder’s ear as if confiding secrets. The dog listened intently, tilting his head as though he understood every word, responding with a nudge or a lick to her face that made her laugh. Deep down, William believed there was a silent connection between his mute daughter and the dog—one that defied explanation.
Mrs. Palmer, though kind, was weary with age and often sighed, “You need a wife, William. You can’t manage alone, and I won’t be around forever—these old bones ache too much. The children need care, and this house needs a woman’s touch.”
Her words lingered in William’s mind, but he waved them off, unable to imagine anyone replacing his children’s mother.
One autumn evening, an old friend of William’s, Michael, stopped by the village. They reminisced late into the night, and when William walked him to the station, they dropped by the local café, where a woman named Sarah worked behind the counter. Her weary yet warm smile stayed with him. She had moved to the village after losing her husband in a distant accident, childless and quiet. William began visiting the café more often, then started walking her home to her little room in an old wooden house. Their meetings grew warmer, and soon, he invited her over.
Sarah arrived with gifts—toys and sweets. She spent the day with the children—reading, drawing, making them laugh. Emily and James were drawn to her like moths to a flame. But Thunder, ever the guardian, greeted her with distrust. His low growls followed her every move. She offered him a treat, but he turned away.
“He’ll get used to you,” William reassured her, though worry gnawed at him. “He’s just not fond of strangers.”
By New Year’s, Sarah moved in. They married, and she left the café to care for the house. Everything changed—furniture was rearranged, windows gleamed, rugs were freshly beaten. For the first time in years, William felt at peace. The children were watched, the house in order, his heart no longer empty. But Sarah, used to freedom, soon grew restless. The children’s constant demands wore on her, and she missed her evenings out with friends.
As months passed, the mask of the devoted stepmother slipped. Irritated, she snapped at the children—punishing them with time in the dark pantry for the slightest misstep. James and Emily, trembling, sat on the cold floor, too scared to move. Sarah threatened James never to tell his father, warning of worse if he did. The children learned to avoid her, fleeing to Thunder in the yard. Only with him did they feel safe. The dog loathed Sarah, growling when she drew near, shielding the children with his body.
She demanded William get rid of Thunder, but he refused. “He’s family. Stay away from him.”
She dared not poison the dog—William would know, and Thunder, sensing danger, refused any food from her.
When William was away, the house filled with laughter and strangers. Sarah hosted gatherings, the table piled with food and drink, the record player blaring. Hungry and frightened, the children hid in Thunder’s kennel, pressed against his warmth. The high fence hid them, and the dog’s barks raised no suspicion—the village knew his voice too well.
That autumn, as the woods brimmed with mushrooms, Sarah stumbled upon an abandoned quarry with an old, rusted wagon. It sparked a terrible plan.
Early October brought frost. William left on another trip, and Sarah dressed the children lightly, taking them to the village. She bought them sweets and toys, smiling for neighbours, playing the doting stepmother. They, unaccustomed to kindness, didn’t suspect a thing. But back home, she locked them in the pantry. They cried, begged for food, but no one came.
That night, fortified with drink, Sarah led them from the house, whispering they were “going to find Dad in the woods.” Shivering, Emily clung to her hand. They crossed the empty road to the quarry. In the wagon, she tied them up, gagged James, and left them in the freezing dark.
Returning home, she scattered toys, rumpled beds—setting the stage. By morning, she’d sound the alarm, and the frost would do the rest. But Thunder, sensing danger, howled like never before. Straining, he dragged his kennel, snapped his chain, and vanished into the night.
Meanwhile, lorry driver David was heading home when a huge dog dashed into the road. He braked hard, stunned as the animal barked frantically, darting toward the woods. Then, in his headlights, he saw a woman—pale, in a long white dress, her dark hair wet beneath a black shawl. She pointed toward the trees, then vanished. The dog barked, tugging David forward.
Following, he found the wagon, and inside—the freezing, bound children. Freeing them, he wrapped them in his coat and drove to the village police. The woman and dog were gone.
The officer recognised Thunder when they arrived at William’s home. Inside, drunk Sarah denied everything but cracked under questioning. Neighbours gathered, murmuring.
“Describe the woman who led you,” the officer asked.
David pointed to a photo on the wall. “Her.”
The room fell silent. William, returning early, paled. “That’s Eleanor… my first wife. The children’s mother. She drowned three years ago.”
As Sarah was led away, begging mercy, Thunder lunged, biting her leg before being pulled back. William wept into the dog’s fur, then rushed to the hospital.
That winter, on Eleanor’s grave in the churchyard, red roses bloomed bright against the snow—a mother’s love, protecting her children even beyond this world.