The continual barking bothered me, but the whimpering did. The dog frightened, like it sensed something was wrong.

Mrs. Elva, our downstairs neighbor, loved that husky like her own kid. That was somewhat true. Three days passed with no lights, activity, or Elva. One dog roaming the balcony.

Nobody answered our knocks.

By day two, I was fed up. We used a broomstick and bucket to drop water, dry dog food, and a blanket. Starving. We left him crying.

On day three, we phoned animal control. I didn’t care whether it overstepped—something was wrong.

We pointed to the flat and explained everything when they arrived. They were going to push the door when it opened.

Elva.

I started it with my boyfriend—how could she leave him? Did she forget to call? He could have perished.

She didn’t lash out. Her voice was silent.

She looked at us dazed and said, “I buried my sister yesterday.”

The words slapped.

My guy froze as I blushed. Silence fell over us, as shame filled the air.

Elva moved aside to allow the animal control man view the dog. “He’s fine. Nodding to us, she stated they fed him. Her voice broke on the final syllable.

She seemed weary. She wore the same clothing three days ago, hair unkempt, eyes swollen. She hadn’t been home, I realized.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” she muttered. “I rushed out. Not time to locate a sitter. I expected to go one night.”

We apologized repeatedly. She dismissed us.

“I’m just grateful you cared,” she replied. Most don’t.”

Animal control promptly inspected the dog and nodded. He remarked, “He’s lucky to have neighbors like you,” before departing.

That should have ended it. However, it was not.

I couldn’t sleep that night. The face of Elva tormented me. The dog—Stormy—cries softly and searches every nook. It went beyond hunger. He awaited her.

I brought banana bread down the following morning. Elva seemed astonished but smiled briefly and allowed me in.

Clean, but stale air filled her flat. Grief lingered like untouchable dust. Stormy wagging his tail at me but staying close to Elva.

“She was my only family,” Elva continued, making coffee. “We were not close as children, but she became ill last year. We just had each other.”

I let her speak. Sometimes that’s enough.

After that, we checked in more regularly. Wave from the balcony or drop off leftovers. My partner, who said he wasn’t a “dog guy,” brought cookies home “just in case Stormy liked them.”

After a few weeks, Elva appeared happier. She looked exhausted, but her cheeks were colored again. Stormy recovered too.

We noticed Elva chatting to a guy in the parking lot one afternoon while walking our dog. He was tall, sharp-dressed, and too clean-cut for our building She stood tensely, arms crossed, which caught my attention.

We were visited by Elva later that night.

She continued, “I need to ask a favor,” flashing eyes. “Can you watch Stormy tomorrow? A couple hours.”

Of course we agreed.

Next day lasted well into night. No call, no text. Stormy grumbled near the door, sensing trouble again.

Elva phoned around midnight.

“I’m so sorry,” she shakily murmured. “I’ll explain everything tomorrow. Please keep him tonight.”

The pit in my gut returned, but we agreed.

Elva arrived early the following day. Looking worse than when her sister died. Pale, shaky, like she hadn’t slept in days.

“That man you saw was my sister’s ex-husband,” she continued hesitantly. He is not a decent guy. After she died, he wanted to dispute her will.”

Wrung her hands. “She left me everything—savings, Glenville house. He claims it for himself.”

He allegedly threatened her. He said he had “documents” showing she manipulated her ill sister. Her coercion changed the will.

But it’s not true,” Elva exclaimed, raising her voice. “I looked after her. Stay with her, she said. He abandoned her years ago.”

Boyfriend inquired whether she had a lawyer. She barely did. A high-caseload public defender.

“I don’t care about the house,” she murmured. But I won’t give him Stormy. He stated he purchased him and could claim him.”

That satisfied me.

We offered aid. Support, money, whatever.

Our surprise was the extent of his actions.

Someone attempted to break into Elva’s automobile three nights later. Her mailbox was ripped open. The notes were vulgar and frightening.

We urged her to report it, but she was terrified. “He’s smart,” she remarked. “He’ll make me look unstable. He’s done it.”

We recorded everything.

Cameras were mounted on our balcony. A former amateur photographer, my partner made our hallway a watch zone. We recorded every note and odd sound.

A week later, he was apprehended. In camera. attempting to break into her storage container at 2 a.m.

Elva went immediately to police. Proof this time made them take it seriously.

TRO was filed. Her lawyer requested a hearing to prove her heirship to her sister. The guy then vanished—for now.

Elva wept afterwards. She embraced us and said, “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

The twist.

A letter arrives weeks later. Handwritten. From Elva.

Only a few lines.

“Dear buddies,

I leave town. I own the Glenville home, therefore I suppose it’s time to start again. Stormy and I need calm.

Let me give you something before I go.

Thank you for feeding my dog. Thank you for believing me when others didn’t.

Sending love, Eva

The mail contained a cheque.

Five grand.

Staring, I was shocked. We did nothing spectacular, I thought. We cared.

We resisted. I tried calling her but got disconnected.

Later that day, the landlord confirmed Elva’s departure. Left the house clean, gave him the keys, and hugged him.

He reported her first grin in months.

I stood on our balcony with Stormy’s old blanket over the railing that night. I looked at the sky and thought about how close we came to not participating.

Keeping to ourselves would have been simple. To assume “someone else will help.”

However, being inquisitive may have saved or eased a life.

And that check? We didn’t cash.

Instead, we gave it to a local shelter in Stormy’s honor.

Because sometimes the greatest way to repay kindness is to give it.

If you’re ever unsure whether to knock on someone’s door, feed a starving dog, or listen to their tale, remember Elva.

Do it anyhow.

Someone’s weight is unknown.

Share if this story affected you. You might motivate someone to help neighbors or save a life.