Some mornings blur into routine. Last Tuesday should have been one — coffee, commute, emails. But halfway down Maple Street, I saw a tan dog tied to a post, silent and watchful, an envelope around its neck. My name was written across it.
Inside: a photo of our old house — taken from the woods behind it. Across the bottom, in red ink: Do you remember me?
Memories stirred: the attic, the diary, the whispers. My father’s command — forget it — echoed uselessly.
Now, with the dog’s brass tag engraved “R.M.” and a new envelope reading You were never supposed to forget, I understood.
Some secrets don’t die. They wait — patient, loyal — until someone dares to remember.
