I didn’t set out to find anything unusual that night—just some duct tape and batteries. Honestly, I wasn’t in the mood for anything out of the ordinary. My landlord had just told me rent was going up again, and I was clinging to the hope that fixing the broken drawer in my kitchen might give me some sense of control. That’s how I ended up at Harlow’s Home & Hardware at exactly 9:47 p.m. on a Wednesday.
It was that kind of late hour where everything feels a little slower, a little softer. The store was quiet, mostly empty, the shelves caught mid-restock. Somewhere in the background, an old song played faintly, mixing with the occasional beep of inventory scanners. The air smelled like sawdust and plastic wrap—familiar in a strange, almost comforting way.
I hadn’t even made it to the duct tape when I saw her.
A dog. Medium-sized, sandy fur, ears drooping just a bit. She sat neatly beside the step ladders and extension cords, leash trailing behind her like it had been dropped and forgotten.
I froze.
She looked right at me.
Not startled. Not scared. Just… aware. Like she’d been waiting. Like I was interrupting something she already understood.
I took a step toward her. Then another. She didn’t budge. Her gaze stayed locked on mine—steady, calm, almost patient.
I knelt down.
“Hey, girl,” I whispered, slowly reaching my hand out. “Where’s your person?”
She tilted her head slightly, gave one soft wag of her tail—acknowledging me, but not overly excited.
Her collar was worn but well-maintained—cracked leather that had clearly been loved. I flipped over the tag hanging from it.
One word. Simple, engraved in clean block letters:
HOPE.
No address. No number. No scuffs or scratches—it almost looked new.
I stood, heart ticking a little faster for reasons I couldn’t name, and looked around.
Nothing. No voices. No footsteps. No one calling for a missing dog.
After a few long moments, I gently picked up the leash and walked to the front of the store. She followed quietly, her nails clicking lightly on the tile.
The cashier looked up—young, with a buzzcut and a lip ring. I told her what happened.
She shook her head. “Nobody’s mentioned a lost dog,” she said, reaching for the PA system. She made an announcement, then looked at the dog now resting calmly near the automatic doors.
“She’s not chipped, is she?”
I glanced back. “I don’t know. Her tag just says ‘Hope.’ That’s it.”
The cashier paused, then tilted her head slightly. “Oh,” she said. “That’s her.”
I blinked. “You… know her?”