I didn't plan to visit the Museum of Failures. If you'd asked me that morning where I'd be by sunset, I might have said "working late," or "getting something done," or whatever else passes for purpose these days.

Bris trotted along beside me like he always does. He doesn't wear a lead. Never needed one; his sense of direction is better than most of the people I know. He stops when I stop. Starts when I do. When he looks up at me, it's like he's checking whether I'm still worth following.

We passed closed shops with window vinyl peeling at the corners. A busker playing a guitar in the wrong key. A drunk fighting a lamppost. A woman walking quickly past them all. Just the city as it has always been: improvising.

The Museum stood between a boarded-up tanning salon and a barely surviving bakery. The facade was plain brick, the signage faded but clear: The Museum of Failures. No neon. No branding. Just the words, like it didn't need to explain itself.

"Looks cheerful," Bris said.

Inside, the air was cool and dry. The kind of dryness you only find in places with files and regrets. The floor tiles echoed faintly underfoot.

A sign leaned on a crooked stand beside an unmanned desk. It read: Welcome to the Museum of Failures. Please lower your expectations accordingly.

Bris sniffed at a potted plant that may have been artificial.

"Finally," he muttered, "a place where disappointment isn't hidden in the small print."

I should have left then. Instead, I opened the door wider.

"After you," Bris said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.