The autumn wind rustled through the trees as Burt made his slow walk to church, his cane tapping against the pavement. At 91 years old, every step was careful, every breath a reminder of the long life he had lived—mostly alone.
The morning fog wrapped the streets in a pearl-gray haze when a faint sound stopped him in his tracks. A soft whimper, barely audible. Burt turned his head toward a rain-soaked cardboard box abandoned near the sidewalk. His aching knees protested as he bent down. Inside, a tiny black and white puppy shivered, its eyes round and pleading. A crumpled note was taped to the box: “Take care of him!”
