On a deserted highway, a dog was tied to a fence, and around its neck
The morning began like any other, but the moment I saw the envelope tied to the fence, the air shifted — thick, expectant, almost electric. Inside was a single photograph, slightly faded yet unmistakable. My childhood home stared back at me from the glossy print, captured from an angle that sent chills down my spine. Whoever had taken the picture had been standing close — too close — right outside the garden gate.
Beneath the photo lay a note, the words scrawled hurriedly in red ink: “Do you remember?”
For a long moment, I simply stood there, my breath caught in my throat. The wind stirred the dry grass along the roadside, and the world felt suddenly distant. Even the tan-colored dog sitting nearby — its leash tied neatly to the fence — seemed to be watching me with an uncanny stillness, as if it understood more than it should.
I turned the photo over in my hands. The image was old, but the memories it stirred were immediate — and unsettling. I remembered the way sunlight used to filter through the curtains, the echo of laughter during summer evenings, and the creak of the attic door we were never supposed to open.
Then came the darker recollections — the diary we found one rainy afternoon, tucked behind a loose floorboard in the attic. The handwriting inside didn’t belong to anyone we knew. It was filled with strange entries, warnings, and dates that made no sense. When we showed our parents, their reaction was swift and strange. We were told to forget it, to never speak of it again. Within weeks, we moved away without explanation.
But now, after all these years, someone wanted me to remember.