I didn’t understand, at first, that the man in the parking lot was offering more than a dog. He was handing us a bridge back to the living. Grace arrived without fanfare, curling up at Lucy’s feet as if she had always belonged there. Her presence threaded itself through our days: soft paws on hardwood, a warm weight against my legs when sleep wouldn’t come, a patient listener to a child’s whispered worries. In caring for her, we relearned how to care for ourselves.

The anonymous letter arrived like a final, gentle stitch. Knowing he had known Daniel, had watched from a distance, turned coincidence into a kind of quiet blessing. I realized love had been circling us all along, waiting for the crack where light could enter. Grief remained, but it no longer defined the room. Instead, a small dog snored at our feet, and the future no longer felt like something to survive, but something we might, slowly, learn to welcome.