For over a year, I delivered packages in the same neighborhood without much change—until a quiet dog began waiting for me every day. Unlike other dogs, he never barked; he simply sat at my feet as if he knew me. One rainy afternoon, I finally checked his tag. Instead of a name, it had one word: “Melissa.” My name. The house he guarded had been abandoned for a long time, and no one in the neighborhood knew anything about him.
Everything changed when Blue—because I started calling him that—brought me an envelope with the message “For Melissa Only.” Inside was a letter and a key directing me to a red-doored house on Willow Lane. After my shift, I followed the instructions. The run-down house felt strangely familiar. Inside, I found photos of myself as a little girl playing with a puppy identical to Blue.
A second letter revealed the truth: this was my childhood home. After losing my parents at eight, I had been relocated, and the trauma wiped away the memories. But Blue—my childhood dog—had stayed behind, waiting. The discovery shattered me and healed me at the same time.
In that house, I found my mother’s journal and a piece of my life I never knew I had lost. Blue didn’t just lead me to a forgotten place—he led me back to myself.
