For two years, a grieving mother visited her son’s grave every Sunday, where the same mysterious dog always seemed to be waiting. Then one morning, the dog appeared at her home carrying something she thought was lost forever. But why?
The cemetery was quiet the way only Sunday mornings could be, with dew still clinging to the grass and the wind soft enough to feel like a whisper against my coat.
I walked the same gravel path I had walked every week for two years, carrying a small bundle of yellow daisies because they were Ethan’s favorite.
