Then I saw Buddy pad over to a corner and drop the jacket. He whined softly and nudged a loose floorboard. I followed his lead and pulled the board up.
Beneath it was a small compartment—and inside was an old, weathered notebook. On the front was Simon’s name, scribbled in his unmistakable handwriting.
My hands shook as I flipped through the pages. The notes inside were brief and fragmented:
“Need more food.”
“Wound still not healing.”
“Memories coming back slowly.”
Each entry brought a rush of emotion. It didn’t confirm that Simon was alive now, but it meant he had been—possibly long after we thought he was gone.
Buddy whined again, pointing his nose toward the fireplace. There, sitting quietly on the mantel, were Simon’s hiking boots. The very ones he’d worn on that trip. The sight took my breath away.
Just then, I heard footsteps outside.
The door creaked open, and in stepped an older man with a kind face and a walking stick. Buddy wagged his tail.
“I’ve been looking for him,” the man said gently, nodding at Buddy. “He started showing up near my place about a year ago.”
The man introduced himself as Mr. Prescott. He told me he’d been feeding Buddy and that the dog had once led him to this same cabin. Though he never saw anyone else, he sensed someone had stayed there—perhaps briefly, perhaps longer.
Over the next few days, I returned with supplies, hoping for answers. I found more signs—used bandages, a flashlight with dead batteries, and more notes in the journal, including one that read, “Heading north, found stream.”
Then, about a week later, something I never expected happened.
As I was leaving the cabin, I heard movement in the trees. Buddy barked, tail high. A man stepped into view—thin, bearded, and hesitant. When I looked closer, I saw the familiar scar near his temple, the eyes I knew better than anyone’s.
It was Simon.
Tears welled in both our eyes. He explained, slowly and haltingly, how he’d fallen during his hike and suffered a serious head injury. For months, he’d wandered, unsure of who he was. As fragments of memory returned, so did the fear and uncertainty. He didn’t know how to come home—or if he even could.
But Buddy had never given up on him. And now, neither would we.
Simon came home that evening. It was a long road—he needed care, time, and patience. But with every day, we saw more of the man we had missed. Our children had questions, but they also had hope. Slowly, with love and support, we began to heal as a family.
We even returned to the cabin together, this time with snacks and supplies, leaving it in better shape than we found it—just in case someone else ever needed it.
This journey taught me that hope doesn’t always arrive loudly. Sometimes, it shows up in a wagging tail, a tattered jacket, or the quiet strength of never giving up.
Thank you for reading our story. If it touched you, feel free to share it with someone who might need a little reminder that even the most uncertain paths can lead us back to the people we love.