I still remember that smell.
It was a mix of gasoline, tobacco, and rust—sharp, foul, soaked in malice—and it lingered in the air that rainy night.
That was the night my sister died.
She had hidden me inside the closet and shut the door tightly. I wanted to rush out and had begged at her to let me stay, but her last words, "Be good. Don't make a sound" held me in place. Outside, I had heard struggling, glass shattering, then heavy breathing and then finally, the kind of silence I feared the most.
By the time I had pushed open the door, she was lying in a pool of blood, her clothes stained a dark red. Her eyes were still open, like she was trying to look at me one last time.
I had knelt beside her, shaking her, crying out her name. But she didn't respond. I remembered how she held me just before, whispering, "You have to survive."
I was still young then. I didn't see the attacker's face. But I remembered his scent.
I never forgot that smell.
The police came and called it a robbery gone wrong. They said there were too few clues, and the trail had gone cold. I listened to everything they said and memorized every word. I clung onto the steps they took and the phrases they used. I started learning how investigations worked, how to observe, how to analyze, how to track someone down.
I made a vow that day: I would become a police officer.
Most people didn't believe I could do it. They said I was too fixated, too stubborn. But I didn't care. I trained day and night. While others slept, I was studying scent profiles and practicing trailing different targets. While others chatted, I was running drills in the cold outdoors alone. I endured pain, hunger, exhaustion, but I never stopped.
My sister was gone. I had to live for her and find the one who took her from me.
Five years passed.
I finally made it. I wore the uniform. On the day I graduated from the academy, I whispered to her that I had done it underneath the bright Summer air. I could almost see her smiling at me.
My first mission was to assist in a burglary investigation. During this field operation, we searched an abandoned factory where the suspect was said to be hiding. As soon as I stepped onto the chipped concrete floor, a familiar scent hit me like lightning.
Gasoline. Tobacco. Rust. That scent just like that night.
I charged forward without hesitation, ignoring every command, every warning. I dove into a corner hidden under stiff cardboard boxes and found him there—frozen. His boots were soaked in diesel. He reeked of the same stench I'd spent five years chasing.
When they shook him down they found three items n his pocket. A worn-out lighter, a set of rusted keys and a pendant that once belonged to my sister.
He panicked and resisted, claiming innocence. But I knew. I knew it was him. I'd never been more certain of anything.
The evidence matched. The surveillance videos were re-examined and aligned with his features. He was convicted and sentenced.
I didn't cry that day. I just sat outside the station, watching the sunset as they lead him away. I felt like my sister was beside me again, gently stroking my head like she used to.
Later, they gave me a medal, calling me one of the youngest decorated officers in the city.
Everyone said I had a gift, that my sense of smell was exceptional. But it wasn't a gift. It was memory. It was pain. It was the only thing in my life that I had sunk my teeth into and refused to let go of.
A little kid once asked me, "How do you smell things so well?"
I didn't answer.
I just wagged my tail.
Yes, I'm the stray she once adopted, the "little brother" she called family. The one she gave her life to protect.
And now, I've finally given her what she deserved.
She used to say, "You're the best little brother I could ask for."
Now, at last, I can tell her:
"I didn't let you down."