A year later, John stood at the edge of a dock, right in front of a lake. He stared down at his reflection on the water, face in permanent, sad lines, eyes glazed over and black behind his circular eyeglasses, with dark crescents underneath from countless sleepless nights.
His eyes shifted to his right, and - his heart leapt - there stood his fiancé, wearing one of her captivating grins. He spoke her name, soft enough to dissolve in a passing breeze. She opened her mouth, lips curved perfectly - and he could hear her voice, a gentle, floating wisp in the air, warm and calming - but, instead of that, out came a familiar whimper that was not hers.
John frowned, then, blinked, and now, there sat Schoep, looking up at him as he stared down at the water. He placed his gaze onto the dog now, whose head, he noticed, was tilted slightly to the side.
"She's gone, Schoep," he told him, voice raspy from hours of silence and staring into space. "She's left us a long time ago."
(Though it felt like yesterday.)
The Shepherd-mix simply whimpered once again, lifting a paw to his leg, as if to pat him as a gesture of comfort. There, there, there, he could be saying.
However, John wasn't looking at him anymore. He's returned to his reflection in the rippling water, its shimmering waves blocking access to see what was underneath. But, beneath his shadow - where his body obstructed the sunlight - the water was clear. He could see the sand sloping down, the water following and its hue darkening, into a blackness light could no longer pierce through.
And he could see his own reflection, falling into this. Eyes wide open, staring up. Glasses drifted away. Body and limbs flowing but sinking, letting the water carry themselves down. Mouth slightly agape, bubbles floating out. Down, down, down, into that abyss.
It could be peaceful, he thought.
A pressure on his leg brought him out of his reverie, and he returned his gaze onto Schoep, who has a paw on his leg and his eyes locked on his. Brows were furrowed, one ear folded, head tilted back, frowning. It was almost like his features were trying to form an expression of concern.
John's heart jumped to his throat. Surreal, he thought, eyes wide. This can't be real. But, he could not deny the concern he could feel Schoep was trying to convey.
Eyes shifting to the tiny cut on his brow, he recalled the day he first saw this dog, when he was simply eight months old. Shaking and hurt and scared, blending in the dark.
Now, he sat properly, without fear and barely trembling, beneath the sun. The wound on his brow was now a scar, like John predicated, but with a thin but transparent layer of skin above it. It was nearly undetectable underneath the soft, clean fur - because he took care of it. He made sure to treat this dog well, and in exactly the opposite manner of his previous owner.
He remembered his ex-fiancé's flashing smile that first day. This is the one, it had said. This is our boy.
Our boy.
John shook his head. No, no. He met Schoep's eyes, the edge of his lips twitching up to form a small smile. This is my boy.
And I'll be taking care of him, he told himself, as he tugged on the leash on his collar. Schoep practically jumped up into his standing position, tongue hanging out of his grinning mouth. They gradually turned away from the lake, walking towards the end of the dock, where it returned to land.
Until the end of my life.