The diner’s bell jingled sharply, but no customer stepped through the door. Instead, every head turned toward the small, trembling figure at the entrance—a snow-dusted terrier, standing alone on the welcome mat.
Everyone in the room recognized him instantly. Barnaby, a scruffy, wiry-haired terrier mix with a heart that could fill the room, had been the constant companion of Clara, the eighty-year-old widow who claimed booth four every morning for the past five years.
Yet today, booth four was empty. And Barnaby had arrived on his own.
The little dog wore no collar. Across his chest was a homemade denim saddlebag, frayed and faded from years of use. He shook the snow from his coat, barked once, and trotted directly to the counter where I stood.
“Hey, buddy,” I whispered, a sinking feeling in my chest. “Where’s Clara?”
Their routine had always been seamless. Clara would sip her black coffee, her shaky hand scribbling messages on index cards. Then, she’d tuck a card into Barnaby’s saddlebag and give a small gesture. Barnaby would weave through the diner, nudging lonely truckers or anxious mothers, who would find a note tucked under his paw: “You are enough.” “The storm will pass.”
