Max climbed out of bed and patted the empty space on his pillow. His palm pressed down on cool cotton — no warm weight, no familiar brown fur. "Grizzi?" he called. The house stayed quiet.
Max tipped his toy box onto its side. A cascade of stuffed animals spilled across the rug. He flipped through them — a green frog, a blue rabbit, a yellow duck — his fingers finding only smooth fleece and plastic eyes.
Max searched every room. He lifted sofa cushions, peered into the laundry hamper, checked under the kitchen table where cereal crumbs dotted the floor, and even opened the bathroom cabinet to stare at his own reflection.
Max climbed onto his bookshelf to reach a dusty shoebox on the top shelf. Behind a bundle of winter scarves, something brown and familiar peered back at him. "Grizzi?"
Max pulled the box forward. Grizzi tumbled out with a soft thump and landed right-side up on his knees. Max stared at him — then at the shoebox — then let out a huge grin.
Max carried Grizzi back to his room. He left the empty shoebox on the windowsill where the morning light would find it, then climbed into bed.
Max climbed under the covers and pulled Grizzi close against his chest. His thumb found the soft worn patch on Grizzi's belly and traced it again and again.
The house was quiet now. Outside, the sky turned the color of ripe peaches. Max closed his eyes. Grizzi was right where he belonged.
In the morning, the sun found the shoebox on the windowsill first. It painted the dusty cardboard gold, then tipped its light across the rug, up the bookshelf, and finally onto the bed.
Max sat up and rubbed his eyes. He reached for the space beside him on the pillow — warm cotton, the familiar shape, the soft weight of a brown teddy bear already waiting.
"Good morning, Grizzi," Max whispered. He pressed his cheek against the bear's soft head and breathed in the familiar smell of cotton and home.
Grizzi didn't say anything back. He never did. But he was there, exactly where he had always been, and that was enough.