For a moment, I imagined it was Ethan answering.
Then I looked up.
The dog was already there.
He was a scruffy golden retriever mix with muddy fur, tired eyes, and no collar. He lay beside Ethan’s grave with his chin resting on his paws. He watched me calmly, never barking, never moving closer.
“Hello, boy,” I whispered. “You came again.”
His tail tapped once against the ground.
For an entire year, he had appeared at Ethan’s grave before I arrived. Rain, snow, freezing mornings, and even the unbearable heat of August never kept him away.
I began bringing him water and a little food.
“I asked about you again,” I told him. “The groundskeeper says no one knows where you came from.”
The dog blinked.
I had put up notices around the neighborhood and posted his picture online. I had asked everyone within three blocks if he belonged to them.
