In the quiet hours of the clinic, when the bustle of the day faded into the background, I found myself drawn to the records room.
It was a small, cluttered space, filled with the scent of old paper and the faint hum of a distant fan.
Files were stacked neatly on shelves, a testament to the years of care and dedication that had passed through these walls.
Dr. Miller’s notes were among them, his meticulous handwriting a comfort in its familiarity.
Yet, as I sifted through the pages, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss.
There were gaps in the records, missing pieces that made the puzzle even more perplexing.
One file in particular caught my attention, its edges worn with use, the label faint but legible.
Daisy’s breeder information, a document that should have been straightforward, yet here it was, raising more questions than answers.
The details were sparse, the kind of vagueness that hinted at deeper complexities.
My fingers traced the edges of the paper, the texture rough against my skin.
Something was wrong, and the more I looked, the more convinced I became.
But the answers weren’t here, not in the records, not in the clinic.
I needed to confront Mrs. Hammond, to understand what was really happening.
The thought settled in my mind, a decision that felt both inevitable and daunting.
Yet, as I prepared to face her, I realized that the truth might be far more complicated than I had anticipated.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
