It’s been three years since my brother Lucas disappeared on a weekend camping trip. His car was found, but he never came home. We searched. We hoped. Eventually, we grieved. Life moved on—but his absence never left us.

Then last Saturday, something strange happened.

I was sipping tea on my back steps when a small dog appeared from the fog, carrying something in its mouth. It dropped it at my feet: a plastic guitar keychain—Lucas’s. He always carried it like a lucky charm.

The dog barked and walked toward the woods, pausing to look back at me. I followed.

It led me deep into the forest to a shed I’d never seen before. Inside, I found worn blankets, notes on the wall in Lucas’s handwriting, and a tin box with his wallet—and a letter.

He’d been hurt, stranded, and tried to get home but couldn’t. He survived for a while, writing songs and letters, never giving up hope. “If by some miracle this is my sister,” he wrote, “I’m sorry I didn’t come back.”

Behind the shed, the dog led me to a tree with a small cross. Another note rested beneath it: “Gone but not forgotten. Thank you for following the trail.”

Lucas had died there. But he wasn’t lost anymore.

I brought the letter and wallet home. We returned as a family, gathered his things, and buried him beneath the oak tree he used to climb. We played one of his old songs. We cried. We remembered.

I named the dog Chance. He lives with me now.

And every so often, when I sit on the steps in the morning fog, I swear I feel Lucas near.

Sometimes, life gives you one last chance to say goodbye.

And if you’re lucky—you’ll know to follow it.