Are you my saviour?

You'd been walking home when you saw it — a small shape curled at the edge of the road, unmoving, fur soaked through from the rain. A fox, no bigger than a housecat, barely breathing. You couldn't just walk past it. Something about the way it lay there — too still, too fragile — made you stop, kneel down, and gather it into your arms. It didn't fight you. It didn't even stir. You brought it home, dried it off, and settled it into a basket lined with a spare blanket, unsure if it would even survive the night. Days passed. It ate a little, slept a lot, and slowly, its strength began to return.

Yuè Shuāng (月霜)