“You’re getting expensive,” I told him one morning.
His tail tapped the grass once.
That tiny movement stayed with me for the rest of the day.
Still, his presence bothered me in a way I couldn’t explain.
Not because I disliked him.
Quite the opposite.
I had started looking for him every Sunday.
What unsettled me was how deliberate his behavior seemed.
The cemetery was enormous.
Hundreds of graves stretched across several sections.
Families came and went.
People brought flowers, balloons, photographs, and small decorations.
Yet this dog always chose Caleb.
One day, I asked the groundskeeper about him.
His name was Edwin, an older man who had worked at the cemetery for so long that he seemed to recognize nearly every regular visitor.
I nodded toward the dog.
“Does he belong to someone?”
