One windy afternoon, Jenny sat under the oak tree. The yellow flowers had grown tall. She traced her fingers over the small wooden cross her father had made.
But lately, Spark was tired. His legs ached. His ears didn’t hear so well anymore. And sometimes, when Jenny called him, he didn’t come—not because he didn’t want to, but because he simply didn’t hear.
Just once.
That night, Jenny’s parents found her asleep on the porch, curled around Spark, one small hand resting on his chest. His breathing was slow and quiet.
Spark thumped his tail once. Thump.
“For letting me say goodbye,” Jenny whispered. “Yesterday, I told him everything I needed to say. And he listened. He always listened.”
In the morning, Spark didn’t wake up.
One afternoon, Jenny sat on the porch steps, hugging her knees. Spark lay beside her, his head on her foot.