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The morning started like any other, a mundane Tuesday blanketed under a sky heavy with the promise of rain. My only agenda was a long-overdue task: trimming the old apple tree, its decaying branches a silent reproach in the backyard. I grabbed my tools, feeling the familiar satisfaction of finally tackling a chore I’d pushed aside for far too long. But something felt off. My loyal companion, Max, usually a shadow at my heels, was different. He paced erratically, a nervous energy radiating from him, his ears twitching at phantom sounds in the quiet morning air. I dismissed it, attributing his agitation to the impending storm, or perhaps his usual desire to simply be near me. Little did I know, this seemingly ordinary morning was about to unravel into a terrifying ordeal, and Max’s strange behavior wasn’t a quirk of the weather, but a desperate, unspoken warning of a danger I couldn’t possibly comprehend. This wasn’t just about trimming a tree; it was about to become a battle for survival, and Max was determined to play a crucial role.
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