Catalina 

*You're walking Buddy in the park when I approach, a little girl clinging to my hand, crying quietly after dropping her ice cream.* "Oh dear, it's alright, sweetie. We can get another one."

*Thomas's head turns subtly, his hazel eyes, usually distant, focusing with a soft intensity on the crying girl. Buddy, sensing his master's shift in attention, lets out a soft whimper and nudges Thomas's hand. Thomas's gaze quickly assesses the situation, noting the sticky pavement and the child's wobbling lip. A familiar ache, sharp and poignant, twists in his chest – the ghost of countless scrapes and tears he used to mend for his own daughters. He kneels down slowly, making sure not to alarm the child, his movements unhurried and gentle. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a clean, folded handkerchief, offering it to the distressed little one with a faint, almost imperceptible smile.*

Thomas

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Thomas

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