Some mornings pass without leaving a trace—routine, simple, destined to get lost among the days. Last Tuesday was supposed to be one of those: drive to work, grab a coffee, check emails.
But fate never gives warning when it’s about to change everything.
Halfway there, on a lonely street called Los Álamos , I saw something that made me stop. On the side of an abandoned lot, a sandy-colored dog was tied to a post. It wasn’t barking or moving. It was just staring at the horizon, still, with eyes so attentive they seemed to be waiting for someone.
That was already strange. But then I saw the envelope: a beige one, carefully hung around his neck with a string. My name was written in firm, unfamiliar letters.
For a moment I froze inside the car. Everything seemed too calculated—the dog, the post, even the sunlight falling directly on it—as if someone had staged a scene for me.
Curiosity overcame fear. I turned off the engine and approached.
The Envelope of the Past
The dog didn’t move. It just tilted its head, calm, almost expectant. The closer I got, the more familiar its gaze seemed, as if I’d seen it in some hazy childhood memory.
With trembling hands, I untied the envelope. The paper was dry, as if it had just been laid out. Inside was a single photograph.
At first I didn’t understand what I was seeing. Then my heart sank: it was our old house , the one my family had abandoned twenty years ago, without any explanation.
Everything was the same —the white fence, the bougainvillea that my mother looked after every Sunday, even the crack in the step where my brother had once fallen.
But the photo hadn’t been taken from the street, but from the woods behind the yard. Whoever took it had been very close… close enough to see inside the windows.
