“That’s Barnaby,” the shopkeeper said quietly, leaning against the counter. “He belonged to Toby, a cellist who lived in the apartment right above this shop. They were inseparable. You never saw one without the other. Toby used to bring him in here while I worked on his strings. Barnaby would just lie there, listening to the music like he understood every note.”
The shopkeeper explained that Toby had been a rising star in the local symphony, a musician who worked late nights at the concert hall across the city. Every morning at exactly 6:15 AM, Toby would step off the 402 bus, returning from his rehearsals or late-night gigs. Barnaby would be right there, waiting at the stop to escort him the last three blocks home. It was their ritual—a silent, sacred pact of loyalty.