The Return to the Past

I looked at the dog again — calm, loyal, and oddly familiar. Had someone sent it to me? Its leash had been tied with deliberate care, and the envelope had clearly been placed there for me to find. It was no coincidence.

I untied the dog and knelt beside it, my fingers brushing through its short fur. “Who sent you?” I whispered, half-expecting an answer. The animal merely tilted its head, then wagged its tail as if reassuring me. Somehow, I felt it was guiding me — or perhaps guarding something I wasn’t yet ready to face.

The drive to work passed in silence, but the envelope sat heavy on the passenger seat, an unspoken command pressing against my thoughts. Whoever had sent this message knew something — something about the house, the diary, or what happened the night before we left.

By the time I reached my office, I knew what I had to do. I couldn’t ignore it. That photograph wasn’t just a relic from my past — it was a summons. Someone wanted me to return, to uncover what had been buried beneath years of silence.

As the dog rested peacefully in the backseat, I stared at my reflection in the windshield. The person looking back at me wasn’t the same child who once played under the oak tree in that yard. But maybe — just maybe — it was time to find out what she had been forced to forget.

The past had found me again. And this time, I wasn’t going to run.