Just… dim.
He looked down at the leash in his hands, his fingers loosening slightly as if he had been holding on to something that had just slipped out of reach.
“My wife passed last year,” he said quietly. “This dog—Rusty—he was hers first. Then he became mine because there wasn’t anyone else left.”
His voice held steady until the last word, where it faltered just enough to reveal everything underneath.
“He waits by the door every afternoon,” he continued, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the room. “Five o’clock. That’s when she used to come home. He still thinks she’s late.”
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