I still come back to this place. The wild daffodils still grow in the same patch, and the leaves crunch underfoot just like they used to. I sit here the way I always did—back when he’d nestle beside me, nudging his nose against my knee like it was his quiet way of saying, I’m here. I’m listening.
It’s been five weeks since I laid Jasper to rest.
I thought I was ready. He was thirteen. His legs had started to fail him, and the vet had been gently preparing me for a while. But nothing readies you for the silence that follows a final breath—or for the way a home can feel so cavernous without the jingle of tags or the soft thud of paws on the floor.
But what truly caught me off guard… was what came next.
Three days after his passing, a small, battered envelope arrived—no return address, just my name written in blocky handwriting.
Inside was a single, timeworn photo of Jasper. But not just any photo. One I’d never seen before—Jasper as a young pup, sitting beside a man I didn’t recognize. Both of them smiling, bathed in warm sunlight. The man’s arm was wrapped around Jasper, and Jasper looked so thrilled, his tail a blur of motion.
I stared at it for what felt like hours. My heart thudded in my chest. Who was this man? Why had I never seen this photo before? Jasper had always been mine—from the day I brought him home from the shelter. He’d been my shadow, my solace, the constant thread through every heartbreak and move and messy chapter of life.
This photo felt like it didn’t belong. Like a crack in a story I thought I knew by heart.
I flipped it over, hoping for a note, a clue—anything. But the back was blank, save for a faint, faded stamp, the kind found on old postcards.
I tried to shrug it off. Maybe it was a mistake. A mix-up. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t. That photo clung to my thoughts. It unsettled me.
A week later, another package came. Heavier this time. My hands shook as I opened it. Inside was a thick, worn journal—its edges frayed, its pages yellowed. It smelled like age and dust, but there was something gentle in that scent.
When I opened it, my breath caught.
It was a journal—written by Jasper’s former owner.
The man from the photo.
The first entries were light, sweet—describing walks in the park and Jasper’s endless puppy energy. But soon, the words took a turn. The writer began describing hardships: how he couldn’t keep up with Jasper anymore, how his health was fading, how he was losing work, running out of options