Michael lived a quiet, isolated life on the edge of town, in a weathered old house where the only sound was the wind rattling the tin roof. But everything changed one chilly autumn day when a crumpled note led him to a scrapyard—and to something he never expected.
Wandering through the mess of rusted metal and broken-down machines, Michael suddenly heard a faint whimper. His instincts, honed from years in the military, kicked in. He followed the sound to a stack of old sheet metal—and that’s where he found it.
A dog.
Starved and battered, the dog’s once-shiny golden coat was now matted and bloodied. One eye was clouded, and its leg was bent at a painful angle. But what stopped Michael cold wasn’t just the dog’s condition—it was the worn leather collar around its neck. Something about it felt familiar. Something about it felt like fate.
