Sometimes I think I want to hide you somewhere where no one could ever find you; like a fox burying its prized possession. Then I fear I'd bury you too deep. So deep that even I wouldn't find you. But I would never, never stop looking; even if my nails were to break and fall, I would dig with my teeth, and my nose, and my paws—until everything, everything falls apart. And even then, I wouldn't stop.
And how could I? When you're somewhere, waiting.
Or are you hiding?