The shelter smelled like most shelters do—a mix of disinfectant, damp fur, and something underlying that spoke of too many stories intersecting in one place. Dogs barked, some excited, some anxious, some resigned.
Daniel signed the paperwork, exchanged a few polite words with the staff, and turned his chair toward the exit.
And then he heard it.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t even particularly distinct to anyone else in the room.
But to him, it was unmistakable.
A bark—deeper than most, edged with something rougher than he remembered, but carrying a cadence that hit him like a memory made sound.
He froze.
For a moment, he told himself it was nothing, that his mind was playing tricks on him, pulling familiar patterns out of unfamiliar noise.
Then it came again.
