Pedro set up a cozy dog bed under the old tree near the shop, with a blanket for cold nights and a squeaky toy for company. Students dropped by throughout the day to say hello, sometimes leaving treats or a gentle pat. Lola responded with quiet gratitude, curling up after her meal, content to nap in her little patch of shade.
Their days settled into a gentle rhythm. Pedro no longer checked the clock for Lola’s arrival—he simply listened for the soft tap of her paws or looked for the flash of green that always signaled her approach.
And she never missed a morning. Not once.
But then, one ordinary Wednesday, Lola didn’t show up at eleven. At first, Pedro was too busy with orders to notice the time slip by. It was only after the lunch rush faded and he wiped his brow, glancing at the empty spot by the tree, that he realized she was late.
He waited another half hour, eyes on the street, worry prickling through him. Still no Lola. A sense of unease crept in—a subtle shift in the day, as if the campus itself felt her absence.
All afternoon, Pedro moved through his tasks in a distracted haze, his mind returning again and again to the empty patch of grass beneath the tree.