Aaron Blake, a 40-year-old biker with a gentle voice and scarred hands, was heading through town when he saw it: a crowd gathered near the cemetery gates.

People whispered. A small dog had been lying there for days, refusing to move or eat.

Aaron pulled over, curiosity tugging at him. He walked closer, boots crunching over wet gravel.

At the gate, a tiny brown puppy, maybe six months old, huddled against the stone post. Rain had soaked its fur, but it didn’t seem to care.

“Hey, boy…” Aaron knelt. The puppy didn’t growl, didn’t back away. It just looked up at him with tired eyes.

A local groundskeeper muttered behind him, “It’s been here since Sunday. Wouldn’t leave that grave. We think it belonged to the woman buried there — died in a car accident.”