The rhythmic clatter of train wheels and the blur of trees lulled Oliver into a doze, his forehead resting against the window, his grip tight around a large pink doll box—a gift for his six-year-old daughter. Just over an hour remained of his journey; his business trip was nearly over, and he couldn’t wait to see his family again.
His dream was vivid—home, his beloved Emily, and little Lily, his sunshine. Even the scruffy mutt, Patch, made an appearance—the very dog he’d never wanted. Small, scruffy, and timid, but Lily had begged to keep him after finding him as a stray pup. How could he say no to those pleading eyes?
The train jolted to a sudden stop, jerking him awake. Across from him sat a woman he didn’t recognise.
“Good afternoon. Do we know each other?” he asked, confused.
“No, sorry. It’s just sweet to see a serious-looking man holding a doll box like that.”
“It’s for my daughter. I try to bring her something from every trip. Miss her terribly.”
“Your family’s very lucky.”
“I’m the lucky one,” he replied with a soft smile.
He hurried through the outskirts of town, past rows of terraced houses, toward his own. The gate was open—odd. Maybe Emily and Lily had come out to greet him. But when he reached the house, his wife stood pale and trembling.
“Oliver! Lily’s gone!”
The words cut like a knife. His smile vanished. He dropped his bag by the fence but kept hold of the doll.
Emily gasped through tears—she’d heard Lily playing with Patch in the sandpit, then stepped into the kitchen. When she returned, silence. No Lily. She’d searched the yard, the street, the house—nothing.
“Was the gate locked?”
“Lily knows how to open it… but she knows she shouldn’t…”
They searched frantically. Called her name. Knocked on neighbours’ doors. An hour later, they called the police. A search party formed.
All that remained in the sandpit was a tiny bucket and scuffed footprints. Patch was gone too.
“Maybe he’s with her,” the police sergeant mused.
Oliver refused to doubt—Lily was alive. He’d find her. Even in just a T-shirt against the night chill, he didn’t care. “If Lily’s cold, I won’t be warm either,” he muttered.
Armed with a torch and volunteers, he combed the woods. They stopped, shouted. No answer. Oliver remembered the day Lily had brought Patch home, a shivering pup.
Patch had become her shadow. Curled beside her when she was ill. Whined when she left. More than a dog—her guardian.
Then—a flash in the dark. A pink sunhat. A tiny sandal.
“This is hers!” Oliver’s voice cracked.
The volunteers stayed quiet, their looks saying too much. Oliver pushed the fear away. “She’s alive. She’s alive. I’ll find her.”
Hours later, shouts broke the silence. A ravine. At the bottom—Lily. Pale, scratched, but breathing.
“Daddy… I’m thirsty,” she whispered as he hugged her.
“It’s alright, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
Only once they reached the top did she stir.
“Patch is down there… He couldn’t climb up…”
They found the dog—limping, tangled in brambles, dragging himself toward them, as if to lead them to Lily.
At the vet the next morning, the question hung heavy.
“Put him down?”
“No. Fix him. He saved my daughter.”
Two weeks later, Lily raced around the garden. Patch trotted beside her, tail wagging, though his leg still healed. In every step of that scruffy little dog was more love and loyalty than words could hold.
He hadn’t just been useful. He’d been a hero. A proper one.
