I’d been delivering packages in the same neighborhood for over a year—same streets, same houses, same daily rhythm. Then came Blue. Unlike most dogs on my route, he didn’t bark or chase the truck. He simply sat at the edge of a driveway and watched me. Quiet. Still.
Every day, without fail, he’d appear, walk up to me, and settle by my feet, those deep, soulful eyes never leaving mine. At first, I figured he was new to the area. But something about him felt oddly familiar—like a memory just out of reach.
One rainy afternoon, I laughed and asked aloud, “What’s your name, buddy?” Blue tilted his head and let out a soft sound. That’s when I noticed the tag on his collar. It didn’t have a name. Just one word: “Melissa.”
My name. Even stranger, the house he lingered near had been abandoned for over a year. I started asking around, called local shelters—no one knew where Blue came from. Then one morning, he did something different. He brought me an envelope.