The shelter smells like wet fur and happiness that’s been waiting patiently for a second chance.
I sign in, greet one of the shelter employees at the desk, and get paired with a spotted brown mutt who looks like he’s part terrier, part something else entirely, and one hundred percent thrilled to be alive and about to get some much-needed fresh air.
“Ready for an adventure?” I ask Sergeant Puppers, clipping on his leash.
His tail thumps like it’s trying to break free of his body.
Same, buddy.
Sycamore Falls is fully committed to Christmas now — garland strung between lampposts, wreaths on every door, twinkle lights framing every building. Store windows glow, and people actually stop to strike up a conversation.
Back in Chicago, I could walk for miles without anyone noticing I existed.
Here, locals ask about my day. About how I’m enjoying Sycamore Falls. About the kids.
It’ll make it difficult to leave this place when the time comes.
And it will come.
It has to.
This isn’t my home.
But is Chicago?
I’m not quite sure anymore.
After navigating through the sidewalks of the downtown area, I steer Sergeant Puppers onto a side street, allowing him to sniff any and everything that makes him happy. Who knows when he’ll get the chance to go for a walk again.
As he follows his nose, we eventually end up outside a set of iron gates that open to a cemetery on a hill.
Every instinct tells me to turn around. To keep walking. To mind my own business. Instead, I allow the dog to pull me inside.
I walk slowly, reading names and dates, unsure what I’m looking for.
At least that’s what I tell myself, even though I wonder ifshe’sburied here. So as I meander along the paved path, I keep an eye out for any markers bearing the last name Lawrence.
I find Ryan Lawrence first. Died fifteen years ago. This must be Hayden’s father. He hasn’t spoken about him all that much, but Dylan mentioned he passed away when she was only ten.
I touch the cool stone, saying a silent prayer for a man I’ve never met, then continue on. A few rows later, I find yet another Lawrence.
Aspen Lawrence.
Who lived only two days.
My eyes burn with unshed tears over a life that never had a chance to become anything else.
Then I see it.
Large. Ornate. Impossible to miss.
Fresh roses rest against it, the red hue stark against the gray stone.
I approach slowly, my heart pounding with every step I take until I’m standing directly in front of it. I run my fingers over the letters of her name, my thoughts a jumbled mess. As if it wasn’t enough to stare at a life-sized portrait of her yesterday. Now I’m standing in front of her headstone.
Still, like everything else in my life, I’m confident there’s a reason I found this cemetery when I wasn’t looking. Like some bigger force brought me to this exact spot.
“You don’t know me, and I have no idea why I’m here.”
