The man stepped closer, trembling.

“No,” he whispered. “Buddy died with Emma.”

The Rottweiler lifted his head at the name.

Then he whimpered.

Maya looked up. “Who’s Emma?”

The man’s eyes filled with tears.

“My daughter,” he said. “She was seven. The barn caught fire three years ago. They told me she never made it out.”

Buddy suddenly pulled toward the old barn, whining, scratching at the dirt.

Maya stood. “He wants us to follow him.”

The man shook his head. “There’s nothing there.”

But Buddy barked once, sharp and desperate.

The man unclipped the chain with shaking fingers.

Buddy ran to the back of the barn and began digging under a collapsed beam. Dirt flew beneath his paws until something yellow appeared in the dust.

A ribbon.

The man fell to his knees.

Emma had worn that ribbon the day she disappeared.

Beneath it was a small tin lunchbox, blackened by smoke.

Inside was a folded drawing of a little girl, her father, and Buddy.

On the back, written in a child’s hand, were the words:

Daddy, Buddy saved me.

The man sobbed once, broken and breathless.

Maya touched his sleeve.

“If he saved her, maybe she got out.”

Buddy barked again toward the trees beyond the pasture.

Then he ran.

The man followed, stumbling through dry grass and golden light, until they reached an abandoned shed hidden behind the old fence.

Inside, carved into the wall, was one name.

Emma.

Beside it was a fresh handprint in the dust.

The man touched it with trembling fingers.

“She’s alive,” he whispered.

Buddy stood at the doorway, tail low, eyes fixed on the dark woods.

Then he barked again.

Not like a guard dog.

Like a friend who had finally remembered the way home.