The rain didn’t fall.
It attacked.
Dark clouds swallowed the sky as muddy water rushed through the fields, tearing across fences and flooding the land that had once been dry and calm. The farm stood in the middle of it all, small against the power of the storm.
Inside the barn, animals pressed together.
Cows shifted nervously, hooves splashing in rising water. Sheep bleated in fear. Chickens clung to higher boards, wings tight to their sides. The water climbed higher, cold and fast, swirling around their legs.
The door was locked.
Outside, a dog stood in the rain.
Its fur was soaked, its body tense. Through the crack in the wooden door, it could see them. Hear them. Smell the fear in the air. The chain and padlock hung heavy, unmoving, while the water kept rising.
The dog barked.
No answer.
It barked again, louder this time, but the storm swallowed the sound.
Then it ran.
Through thick mud and rushing water, the dog pushed forward, slipping and catching itself, driven by something stronger than fear. Rain blurred the world into shadows and light, but the dog didn’t slow down.
At the farmhouse, a light flicked on.
Moments later, the farmer burst into the rain, following the dog back toward the barn.
When they reached the door, the water was already pouring through the cracks.
The farmer grabbed the chain, hands shaking, and smashed the lock.
It broke.
The door flew open.
Water rushed out—and the animals rushed forward.
One by one, cows stepped into the rain. Sheep followed, stumbling but moving. Chickens fluttered past, wings beating against the storm. The farmer guided them toward higher ground, shouting softly, urgently.
The dog stood at the front.
Watching.
Waiting.
Making sure no one was left behind.
When the last animal crossed into safety, the dog finally relaxed, tail lowering, breath heavy in the cold air.
The rain still fell.
The flood still spread.
But that night, because one dog refused to turn away, a farm didn’t fall silent.