Silence, then barely audible, a sound came from inside. A soft thump, a faint dragging, a muffled, pained moan.
Henry froze, heart slamming against his ribs. He wasn't imagining it.
He wasn't overreacting. Someone was in that room, someone who couldn't get up.
And the puppy knew it. Henry reached for the doorknob, his hand shaking now, not from fear, but from the realization that he might be the only person who could help in time.
He looked down. The puppy stared up at him, eyes wide and pleading.
"All right, little hero," Henry whispered. Then he turned the knob.
The moment Henry pushed the door open, a cold breath of stale air drifted past him, carrying the faint scent of something burned, like a pot left too long on the stove. The room was dim, the curtains half-drawn, allowing only thin slivers of sunlight to cut through the shadows.
As his eyes adjusted, the details slowly emerged, each one tightening the knot in his chest. A small bedside table lay on its side, its drawer spilled open across the floor.
A cup of tea had shattered into a dozen pieces, dried stains marking where the liquid had spilled. A pair of slippers sat unevenly near the bed, as though someone had tried to reach them and failed.
And near the corner of the room, a bottle of medication lay uncapped. Pills scattered across the hardwood like tiny white beads.
Henry's breath came shallow. No one left a room like this on purpose.
The puppy rushed ahead, nose pressed to the floor as it sniffed frantically. It let out a sharp whine, then hurried toward the far side of the bed, its tail tucked so far under its belly, it nearly disappeared.
Henry's heart pounded as he followed, each step feeling heavier than the last. "Mrs. Foster," he called softly again, though now his voice trembled more from dread than uncertainty.
No answer, just silence. And then, barely audible, a faint broken gasp rose from behind the bed.
Henry's stomach dropped. He hurried around the foot of the bed, and the puppy beat him there.
It scrambled desperately, scratching at the floor and nudging at something hidden in the shadows. Henry crouched down, and his breath caught painfully in his throat.
There she was. Mrs. Foster lay curled awkwardly on the floor, one arm twisted beneath her, the other reaching weakly toward the overturned table.
Her face was pale, too pale, and a thin sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open for a second, unfocused, then closed again as if the effort had drained all her strength.
"Mrs. Foster," Henry whispered urgently, dropping to his knees beside her. The puppy whimpered and pressed its little body against her arm, licking her trembling fingers.
Henry gently lifted her shoulders. "Can you hear me?" he asked, trying to steady his voice.
A faint sound escaped her lips. Something between a whisper and a sigh.
It wasn't a word. It was a plea.
Henry glanced around the room. The medicine bottle, the shattered cup, the stale smell, the silence.
Everything pointed to one terrifying truth. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.
And time was running out. Henry's hands trembled as he supported Mrs. Foster's shoulders, trying to ease her onto her back without hurting her.
The puppy pressed itself against her side, whining softly, its small body quivering with fear and devotion. Henry could feel the rapid rise and fall of her breath, shallow, irregular, dangerously weak.
She tried to open her eyes again, but they fluttered like a candle fighting the wind. "Hang on, Mrs. Foster," Henry whispered urgently.
"I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere."
The puppy barked once, sharp and pleading, then nudged her chin with its nose as if begging her to respond. It wasn't just loyal.