CHAPTER TWO: SOMETHING TO HOLD ON TO

Later that morning, I tucked Finn into a soft blanket and placed him in the open tote bag I had turned into a makeshift carrier. He was still small enough to fit, and with his paw still healing, he needed rest more than anything. The cold air met us as I stepped out of the apartment and locked the door behind me.

“Let’s go, buddy. You’re about to see where I work.”

The hallway was quiet, just the soft thud of my boots and Finn’s occasional sniffles. As I turned toward the stairwell, I heard a door creak open beside me.

It was the old couple next door—Mr. and Mrs. Rivera.

They always greeted me with kindness, sometimes leaving fruit by my door. We never spoke much, but they had a gentle presence, like the kind of people who carried stories in their eyes. Today, though, something in them felt… heavy.

“Good morning,” I greeted, offering a soft smile.

“Heading out early?”

Mrs. Rivera gave a faint nod, her hands clasped tightly around a folded handkerchief. “Yes… our daughter passed away two nights ago. Cancer.”

My heart caught in my chest. “I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice was quiet and sincere.

“She fought hard,” Mr. Rivera added as he locked their door. “But her body gave up. Today’s the funeral.”

I didn’t know what to say. Sometimes silence feels more respectful than words. Finn shifted gently in the bag, sensing the weight in the air.

Mrs. Rivera’s eyes drifted to him. “You have a puppy.”

I nodded. “Yes. I found him last night, under a bench.

He was injured and left out in the snow. I… couldn’t just leave him there.”

Their gazes softened, and for a moment, we stood there in quiet understanding—three people who knew what it meant to carry grief in different forms.

“Life has a strange way of placing things in our path,” Mr. Rivera said. “Sometimes we lose. Sometimes we’re given something to hold on to.”

I swallowed, my throat tight. “If there’s anything I can do… I’m just next door.”

They both nodded with gratitude before quietly heading down the stairs.

I stayed still for a moment, holding Finn close, the silence of their absence settling around me.

Then I took a deep breath and turned toward the stairs, carrying him gently.

Because sometimes grief brushes past you like a cold wind—and all you can do is hold onto warmth wherever you find it.

Over the past five years, the room next to mine had seen many faces come and go.

After Mr. and Mrs. Rivera left, it never quite felt the same. The warmth they brought lingered in the hallway long after their door had closed for the last time. Since then, new tenants have come in—some friendly, some distant—but none stayed for long. And none ever quite fit.

Even now, five years later, I still wasn’t used to seeing strangers occupying that space. Sometimes I’d catch myself glancing at the door, half expecting to see Mrs. Rivera’s soft smile or hear Mr. Rivera’s gentle voice called out a good morning.

But things change. Life moves.

Another tenant had just moved out last week, and today, it seemed someone new had taken their place.

I was just coming home from work, walking down the street with Finn by my side. My once-small, snow-soaked puppy was now a large, handsome German Shepherd with alert eyes and a commanding presence. His fur shimmered under the golden light of the late afternoon sun, and his stride was confident—proud, even.

He still wore the same sturdy leash I’d bought when he outgrew his first harness. Finn was obedient, always walking calmly beside me, his steps in sync with mine. But he remained fiercely protective—especially if anyone dared raise their voice at me or got too close without reason.

“Good boy,” I murmured, giving him a pat as we reached the apartment building.

As we climbed the stairs, I heard movement from the next room—the room. The door was slightly open, and a few boxes sat outside, some labeled with black marker: Kitchen, Books, Miscellaneous. A faint sound of unpacking echoed from within.

Finn tilted his head toward the noise, ears perked.

“Looks like someone new moved in again,” I said, pausing in front of my own door. “Let’s see how long this one stays, huh?”

He gave a soft grunt in reply, settling beside me as I unlocked the door.

Still, a quiet curiosity tugged at my chest.

For five years, no one had quite felt like they belonged in that room. But for some reason—just for a moment—I wondered if this new tenant might be different.

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