I used to see him every afternoon around four.

Same green chair, same old paperback, same dog curled by his feet like a shadow. They were regulars at the park—always on the sunniest stretch, by the stone balustrade. It was like they had claimed that spot years ago and time just let them keep it.

I don’t know what made me start watching him. Maybe it was the way he turned each page so slowly, like he was rereading something he already knew by heart. Or maybe it was the dog—calm, loyal, eyes scanning the crowd like it was guarding secrets.

I never spoke to him. Not even once.

But I made up stories in my head. Maybe he was a retired professor. Maybe the book was written by someone he used to love. Maybe that dog was the last living link to something he didn’t talk about anymore.

Last week, I brought my sketchpad. Thought I’d do a quick sketch of the pair, just for fun. But when I got there, the chair was empty. His usual spot, untouched. No dog. No book. Just silence where the sun used to fall.

I waited an hour.

Then today, I saw the dog—alone. Same spot, leash still attached to its collar, just sitting there. No one around it. No sign of him.

It looked up at me like it recognized me. Like it expected me to know what to do next.

I sat down in the green chair beside it.

That’s when I noticed what was tucked under the leg of the chair—a torn envelope. No name on it.

Just one word written in shaky handwriting: “If.”

I carefully pulled the envelope out, my heart pounding a little. Inside was a single folded piece of paper. I unfolded it, and my breath caught in my throat. It was a letter, penned in the same shaky hand.

‘If you find this,’ it read, ‘please take care of Scout. He’s all I have left. I’m… I’m not coming back. He knows the park, he knows the routine. He’ll wait. But he needs someone. Someone to give him a home, a warm bed, a good walk. Someone… like you, I think.’

My eyes filled with tears. I looked at Scout, his big, brown eyes staring back at me, filled with a quiet sadness. It was like he understood every word written on that paper.

I took Scout home.

It wasn’t a decision I made consciously; it was more like an instinct, a silent promise. He was calm in the car, just sitting there, looking out the window, as if he knew he was going somewhere safe.

Back at my apartment, he sniffed around, exploring every corner, but he didn’t seem anxious. He settled into a corner of the living room, his head resting on his paws, watching me with those wise, old eyes.

Over the next few days, I tried to find the man. I went to the park every day, asking anyone who might have seen him. I showed them the letter, the torn envelope. But no one knew him, or if they did, they didn’t recognize him from my descriptions.

The park regulars, the vendors, even the groundskeepers—nothing. It was like he had vanished.

I started to think about the word ‘If.’ It was a strange word to leave behind. It was full of possibilities, of regrets, of unspoken words.

One day, while I was walking Scout, I noticed a small, old bookstore tucked away on a side street. It was the kind of place that smelled of old paper and dust, and the shelves were overflowing with books.

Something told me to go in.

As I browsed the shelves, I saw a familiar book. It was the same paperback the man had always been reading in the park. I pulled it off the shelf, and as I flipped through the pages, a folded piece of paper fell out.

It was another letter.

‘If you’re reading this,’ it said, ‘then Scout has found you. I’m… I’m not sure how much time I have left. I’ve been sick, longer than I care to admit. The park was my sanctuary, Scout my companion. And you, the lady with the sketchpad, you were my silent observer. I watched you, too. You have kind eyes. I knew Scout would be safe with you.’

My hands trembled as I read on.

‘The book is a first edition. It was my wife’s. She loved it. We met at a book club. She passed a few years ago. Scout was hers too. He was the only thing I had left of her. I couldn’t bear the thought of him being alone.’

‘My name is Tobias. And if… if you ever wonder what happened, know that I found peace. I found it in the park, in the pages of this book, and in the quiet companionship of a loyal dog. And in the silent observation of a thoughtful stranger.’

I sat down on the floor, tears streaming down my face. Tobias. That was his name. Tobias.

I looked at Scout, who was sitting patiently beside me, his head resting on my knee. He seemed to understand.

The twist came later. As I was going through Tobias’s book, I found a small, pressed flower tucked between the pages. It was a forget-me-not. And on the back of the flower was another tiny note: ‘If you ever need a friend, look for the forget-me-nots.’

Then I remembered. There was a small garden, a memorial garden, near the park. And it was filled with forget-me-nots. I went there, and there, on a small, worn bench, sat a woman, elderly, with kind, familiar eyes.

She was Tobias’s sister. She had been visiting the garden every day, looking for Scout. She had known Tobias was leaving messages, but she was too afraid to go to the park herself. She had been watching me, just like I had been watching Tobias.

We cried together, shared stories, and found comfort in each other’s company. Scout, it turned out, was loved by more than just Tobias.

The life lesson here is about the power of connection, even when it’s silent. It’s about not letting fear or hesitation prevent us from reaching out to others. It’s about the beauty of unexpected friendships and the importance of taking care of those who need us, whether they’re people or animals.

Don’t let the ‘ifs’ of life hold you back. Say hello, offer a hand, and open your heart. You never know what beautiful connections you might find.

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