The tone of the story shifted as the shopkeeper’s voice trailed off. “Toby didn’t make it home a little over three weeks ago,” he whispered, looking toward the ceiling. “A freak accident at the concert hall—a structural collapse during a late-night set. They said it was quick, but that doesn’t help Barnaby much. The boy’s family came from out of state to pack up the apartment, but in the chaos, the dog got out. He didn’t want to leave.”
The realization hit José like a physical blow. The dog wasn’t just waiting; he was holding a vigil for a passenger who was never going to disembark. To Barnaby, the world hadn’t ended; it had simply stopped working the way it was supposed to. He believed that if he just stayed in the right spot at the right time, the doors would eventually open and the person who made his life whole would step back into it.