Three years later, a girl walked into the hospital lobby carrying a paper bag of flowers. She was taller now, hair longer, but the red thread bracelet on her wrist was the same.
“Can I see Benny?” she asked the receptionist. The woman blinked, then smiled. “You must be Maya.”
Down the corridor, the familiar shape of a golden-brown dog lifted his head. His muzzle had more white now, his steps slower, but the moment he saw her, time folded like paper back to the day it had paused.
“Hey, boy,” she whispered, kneeling. Benny pressed his head into her chest, making a sound halfway between a sigh and a prayer.
Elena appeared in the doorway, hand to her mouth. “He never stopped waiting by the elevator,” she said. “Every morning.”
Maya smiled through tears. “Then I guess I’m right on time.”
They sat together on the floor, surrounded by nurses pretending not to cry. The scarf around Benny’s neck—still blue, still proud—was replaced once more. This time, Maya tied it herself.
Because some promises aren’t broken by time—they’re kept by love that remembers where it began.
