His hands, scarred and lined, rested calmly on his knees, fingers slightly curled as if they still remembered the shape of a rifle or the tension of a radio handset. Pressed against his leg lay a German Shepherd, large and solid, its body aligned protectively with the man’s, breathing slow and steady. There was no leash, no visible collar, nothing that suggested ownership, yet there was nothing stray about the animal. Its coat was clean but worn, its eyes alert yet soft, carrying something deeper than obedience—something shaped by experience, fear, loyalty, and a memory that did not belong to words.

Don Ernesto’s hand trembled as he ran his fingers through the dog’s fur, a gesture that seemed less like petting and more like recognition. “You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice barely audible above the hush of fog and water. “I don’t know why… but you are.” The dog closed its eyes briefly, as if those words had unlocked a place it had been searching for without knowing, and for a moment the pier existed outside of time, suspended between past and present. The stillness did not last. A siren sliced through the fog, followed by another, then the echo of boots striking wet wood in hurried rhythm.