[EXT. OLD COTTAGE – EARLY MORNING]
Every morning at 6:30 sharp, Mrs. Agnes, 82, opens the creaky front gate of her little house on Maple Street. With a cane in one hand and a bag of leftovers in the other, she walks slowly to the sidewalk.
And like clockwork… he’s there.
A skinny, scruffy street dog, ears bent, tail low — watching from a distance with cautious eyes.
He never comes too close. Not yet. But he never misses a morning.
[EXT. SIDEWALK – CONTINUOUS]
Agnes sets the food down gently.
MRS. AGNES (smiling):
I saved you the chicken today, dear. No bones — I know you don’t like those.
The dog waits until she steps back, then trots forward to eat — fast, like he’s not sure when his next meal will come.
She never rushes him. She just watches.
Sometimes she hums a little tune while he eats.
[INT. AGNES’S HOUSE – ONE WEEK LATER]
Rain pours outside. Thunder cracks. But the dog isn’t on the street anymore.
He’s curled up on a blanket beside the fireplace, dry and safe.
Agnes knits quietly in her chair, glancing at him with a soft smile.
MRS. AGNES:
You’ve got a name now, you know. I’m calling you Benny.
And this—this is your home, if you want it.
His tail thumps once.
