The scratching wasn’t loud. Not frantic. Just steady, like something that knew I was on the other side and had all the time in the world.
I remember standing in the kitchen, staring at the back door, telling myself I wasn’t going to open it. Nothing good comes knocking at two in the morning. Not out here. Not this far from town.
But it kept going.
So I grabbed the flashlight, walked through the house, and stepped into the cold. Late October in Asheville carries that damp edge—like the mountains are breathing on you.
The beam hit him all at once.
Same stance. Same ears. Same scar over the left eye Duke got from a barbed wire fence back in 2015.
I didn’t call his name.
I didn’t have to.
His tail moved slow, like he’d been waiting a long time.
And before I could think better of it, I opened the garage door.
