Milo felt it before he heard it. The dog pressed closer to his legs, trembling, nails scraping softly against the floor. Outside, sparks burst open like fiery flowers, scattering red pieces into the dark. Beautiful, people always said. Milo wasn’t so sure anymore.
He knelt down and wrapped his arms around Milo’s shaking body. “It’s okay,” he whispered, though he wasn’t convinced himself. Somewhere nearby, a cat darted under a car. Birds exploded from the trees, confused and panicked, wings beating wildly against the smoke-filled air.
From his window, Milo watched the fireworks bloom and fade. Each one lasted only seconds, but the fear they left behind lingered. He wondered how many animals were hiding right now—hearts racing, senses overwhelmed, not understanding why the night had turned into chaos.
His phone buzzed. A message from a group chat popped up:
No fireworks this year, for the sake of the animals. Anyone joining in?
Milo looked down at the dog in his arms, then back at the blazing sky. Tradition was loud. Habit was comfortable. But change, he realized, often started quietly—in moments like this, when someone chose empathy over noise.
He typed his reply and hit send.
I don’t buy any.
Outside, the explosions continued. Inside, one small decision felt like the beginning of a different kind of celebration—one where the night could finally be just a night again.
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