Chapter 4 - The First Richard
For several minutes, nobody in Room 307 spoke.
The sealed envelope remained in Harold’s trembling hands while rain tapped softly against the window. Richard sat upright beside him, his golden head tilted slightly, as if he too were waiting for the story to begin.
Dr. Emily pulled a chair closer.
“You said every dog you loved was named Richard.”
Harold nodded.
“The first one wasn’t mine.”
His voice was weak, but the memory seemed to strengthen him.
“It was 1951. I was twenty years old and stationed far from home. We were repairing a damaged bridge near a village that had been almost completely abandoned.”
Olivia listened carefully.
“One night, we heard crying beneath the rubble.”
“A child?”
Harold shook his head.
“A dog.”
He looked down at the retriever beside him.
“A skinny brown dog with one injured leg. He had no collar, no owner, and no reason to trust anyone. But when I crawled beneath the collapsed beams, he didn’t bite. He only stared at me.”
Harold paused.
“Behind him was a boy.”
Emily leaned forward.
“The dog had been protecting him?”
“For three days.”
The room became silent again.
Harold explained that the boy had been trapped beneath the ruins after an explosion. The dog had kept him warm, licked rainwater from broken stones, and barked whenever soldiers came near.
“We rescued the boy,” Harold continued. “But the dog stayed with me.”
“What was his name?” Olivia asked.
“The boy called him Richard.”
Harold smiled faintly.
“For courage.”
Richard placed one paw on Harold’s wrist.
The old man continued stroking him.
“The boy’s family disappeared soon afterward. The dog came home with me. He stayed for twelve years.”
“And the envelope?” Emily asked.
Harold’s eyes moved toward it.
“That letter was written by the boy.”
Olivia stared.
“You found him again?”
“No.”
Harold’s voice became quieter.
“He found me.”
Thunder rolled outside.
Harold slowly opened the leather pouch again and removed a black-and-white photograph. It showed a young soldier kneeling beside a thin dog. Behind them stood a frightened boy with dark hair and a bandage across his forehead.
On the back, a sentence had been written in faded ink.
One day, Richard will lead me back to you.
Emily felt a chill.
“When was this written?”
“Seventy-one years ago.”
Harold turned the photograph over again.
“The boy disappeared before I could ask what he meant.”
At that exact moment, Richard suddenly jumped down from the bed.
He moved toward the door and began scratching softly.
Not barking.
Not growling.
Scratching.
Olivia opened it.
The hallway was empty.
But on the floor outside the room lay a small envelope.
No stamp.
No name.
Only a single line written across the front.
He has finally returned.
Richard sniffed it once, then backed away.
May you like
Harold’s face lost all color.
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