Inside the envelope was a photograph, old and slightly worn, yet unmistakably vivid in its portrayal. It was a picture of my family home, taken from a perspective that seemed eerily close, as though the photographer had been standing right outside our garden gate. Underneath the photograph was a note scrawled hastily in red ink: “Do you remember?”
A chill swept down my spine, and I glanced nervously around, expecting to see someone watching from the distance. But there was no one — just the empty stretch of asphalt and the wind rustling through the dry grass by the roadside. The dog, a tan-colored mutt with gentle eyes, sat patiently, its head cocked slightly to the side as if it were as curious about my reaction as I was frightened by the message.
I examined the photograph more closely, focusing on the details. The house looked the same as it had years ago, before we moved away. My heart began to race as memories flooded back. That house had been the site of some of my most cherished childhood moments, but it also had its share of secrets. Secrets I thought were long buried.
The note’s cryptic question — “Do you remember?” — triggered a cascade of thoughts. I remembered the games my siblings and I played in the backyard, the warm laughter of family gatherings. But I also remembered the day we found the old diary in the attic, filled with entries written in a hand none of us recognized. Our parents had dismissed it as a forgotten relic from the previous owners. Yet, something about it had always felt off. We were forbidden to speak of it again, and shortly after, we moved without explanation.
I returned my focus to the dog, whose presence now seemed less random and more purposeful. The poor creature had been standing guard over this message, though by whose command, I couldn’t guess. I crouched down, untying it from the fence and gently rubbing behind its ears, grateful for its inexplicable patience and trust in me.
Questions crowded my mind as I led the dog back to my car. Who had left this message, and why now? What was I supposed to remember? I placed the envelope on the passenger seat and looked at the dog, who had already settled comfortably on the backseat, its eyes closed in a peaceful slumber. It seemed content, as if its task was done, and now the burden rested with me.
As I drove to work, I kept glancing at the envelope. It seemed to weigh down the entire car with its silent demand for answers. I knew I couldn’t simply dismiss it as a prank or a coincidence. Someone knew about my past, about that house, and wanted me to remember something critically important.
By the time I reached my office, I’d decided that I needed to visit the old house. Maybe the answers lay there, hidden among the echoes of my childhood. Perhaps the dog, with its mysterious arrival, was a guiding spirit of sorts, leading me back to where it all began. One thing was certain: the past I thought I had left behind was calling me back, and I had no choice but to follow.
