The Dog Who Never Stopped Waiting

But in mornings.

Because every morning at 5:45, without fail, Corporal walked to the same place.

The front gate.

The stone path was worn slightly smoother there, as if repetition itself had reshaped the ground. Frost, rain, early sunlight—none of it mattered. The golden retriever would sit down with the kind of quiet certainty that didn’t belong to confusion.

It belonged to belief.

The house behind him changed over time.