There is a dog.
He arrived in autumn — just appeared one morning, sleeping in front of the fire as if he’d always been there. No collar. No owner. No story anyone could piece together. Old Henrick tried to shoo him out twice and gave up both times when the dog looked at him with the particular expression of someone who has been asked to leave their own house.
The keeper named him something with an extra syllable in the middle that no one could quite catch.
He sleeps near the door on cold nights. When a traveler comes in distressed — the shaking kind of distressed, the kind they’re trying to hide — he finds them. He doesn’t jump. He just presses his head against their knee and stays there until the shaking stops.
“He’s good with the difficult ones,” Henrick admitted, eventually.
The keeper scratched the dog behind one ear.
She didn’t disagree.