A storm rattled my old farmhouse the night Lucky wouldn’t leave the door. I thought he just wanted out—until he led me through the rain to a shivering girl at the bus stop. One look at her, and I knew something deeper than weather had brought her to me.
The wind howled, rain slammed the windows, and my farmhouse creaked with every gust. Normally, I liked the quiet—just me and Lucky, slow days, slow nights, comfort in small things: the fireplace crackling, honey tea warming my hands.
Twelve years had passed since my husband Tom and our two-year-old daughter Emily disappeared—no note, no goodbye, nothing. Since then, all I wanted was peace, no answers, no company.
But Lucky stood at the door, rigid, ears perked, refusing to move. Ten minutes passed. Still, he didn’t flinch.
Finally, I grabbed a blanket and followed him—curious, cautious, and already sensing that my quiet life was about to change.