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Part 1: The Morning My Dog Wouldn’t Stop Scratching at the Door
The ground was soft beneath my feet, the air smelling of wet leaves and earth. Baxter ran ahead, stopping every few steps to make sure I was still behind him.
I just knew I had to.
“Where are you taking me?” I called, my voice cracking.
He led me across the lot, past overgrown weeds and rusted tools, straight toward an old shed at the far edge of the property. The door hung unevenly, barely attached.
Baxter stopped at the entrance.
My heart was pounding as I stepped inside.
The shed smelled of damp wood and dust. Sunlight filtered through warped boards, creating pale lines across the floor. My breathing sounded loud in the quiet space.
In the far corner, tucked behind an old rake and a cracked flowerpot, was a small nest made of clothing.
Familiar clothing.
I moved closer, my chest tightening with each step.
