As a UPS driver, I’ve grown accustomed to the same barking dogs behind the same fences every day. But Blue was different. This quiet blue heeler didn’t bark – he just watched me with knowing eyes from an abandoned property on my route. There was something eerily familiar about the way he’d approach me, sitting patiently at my feet like we shared some unspoken history.
Everything changed when I noticed his unusual tag. Not a name, but the word “Mika” – my childhood nickname no one uses anymore. Then came the day he brought me a damp envelope in his mouth, addressed to me by name. The note inside led me to a forgotten cottage with a red door, where I discovered photographs of myself as a child – pictures I didn’t remember being taken. There I was, petting a puppy that looked exactly like Blue, on the porch of this very house I’d apparently once called home.
The journal I found explained everything: my parents’ tragic death when I was eight, being sent to live with relatives across the country, and the loyal dog who never stopped waiting for my return. As I sat on that dusty floor clutching childhood memories I’d lost, Blue rested his head in my lap with a sigh that seemed to say, “I knew you’d come back.” Some bonds, I learned, transcend time and memory.
