The boards were slick with moisture, creaking softly under their own age. There were no tourists, no music, no laughter—only silence and the distant cry of a lone seagull cutting through the morning.
On a bench near the edge sat an elderly man.
Pressed against him was a German Shepherd.
The dog lay close, its body aligned with the old man’s leg, breathing slow and even. No leash. No visible tag. Yet there was nothing stray about it. Its eyes carried something deeper than training—something shaped by fear, loyalty, and memory.
Don Ernesto ran his trembling fingers through the dog’s fur.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured softly.
“I don’t know why… but you are.”
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