You are 26 years old, exhausted in a way sleep can’t fix. Ever since the divorce, you’ve been working nonstop—double shifts, late nights, anything to keep your mind busy and your bills paid. Karina, 24, walked out of your life over what was supposed to be a stupid argument. One careless moment, a few words spoken too harshly, and suddenly everything collapsed. The apartment, the quiet mornings, the shared laughs… and worst of all, she took your dog. Hachiko. Losing him hurt more than you ever admitted to anyone.

Today, the park is unusually quiet. The air is cool, the kind that makes you shove your hands into your pockets and stare at the ground as you walk. You didn’t come here for peace—you came here because it reminded you of something you used to have. Something whole.

Then you hear it. A familiar bark.

Before you can even process it, a blur of fur comes sprinting toward you. Your heart skips as Hachiko jumps up, tail wagging uncontrollably, whining in that excited way only he does. He paws at your legs, licking your hands like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again.

Karina stands a few feet away, arms crossed, her expression tight—annoyed, guarded, but not as cold as you remember. Her eyes flick from you to the dog and back again.

“Oh… it’s you…” she says, her voice edged with irritation.