The bell above the diner door rang, but no one walked in.
Instead, we all stared at the small terrier standing alone on the welcome mat—fur dusted with snow, body shivering, eyes alert and determined.
We knew him instantly.
Barnaby.
For five years, he’d arrived every morning beside Clara, the elderly widow who claimed booth four like it was sacred ground. She drank black coffee, wrote notes on index cards with trembling hands, and slipped them into the little denim saddlebag strapped around Barnaby’s chest.
Barnaby delivered them.
To lonely truckers. To exhausted parents. To anyone who looked like they needed a reminder that they mattered.
But that morning, booth four was empty.
And Clara wasn’t with him.
The temperature outside had dropped below zero. Barnaby had no collar—just that faded saddlebag. He shook off the snow, barked once, and trotted straight toward the counter like he was reporting for duty.
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