At the edge of Miller’s farm stood an old gray horse everyone called Ghost — not because he was pale, but because he existed somewhere between memory and the present, a living reminder of what endures.
No one knew exactly when Ghost arrived. Some said Tom Miller bought him cheap years ago; others swore he’d been there forever. What everyone agreed on: Ghost carried history in his eyes, a deep, tired knowing.
Tom had been a rodeo rider once, with Ghost as his partner — fast, loyal, unstoppable. But life has a way of breaking even the strongest. A fall, a failed shoulder, bills piling up, a marriage lost — all Tom had left was the farm and Ghost, the last anchor in a life unraveling quietly.
Years passed. Tom stopped riding. Ghost grazed alone. The drought hit, relentless. Grass turned brittle, water ran out. Tom thought about selling Ghost, but something in their eyes said no. He refused. He fought for his friend.
Buckets of water from town. Roof patched. Barn cleared. Fences checked. Every morning, Tom worked through pain and exhaustion, driven by purpose — to save the horse that had never left his side.
One night, Ghost collapsed. His breathing was shallow, eyes unfocused. Tom called the vet, knowing he could barely afford it. The young vet worked fast. “He’s dehydrated, older than most horses make it. But he’s fighting.”
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