The morning after I passed, the house was too quiet. My bowl still sat by the door, half-full from last night. My bed, the one by the fireplace, still held the shape of my body. I wasn’t there…. at least, not in the way I used to be but somehow, I still was.
I watched as my human came down the stairs, eyes swollen and red. She called my name out of habit — “Buddy?” — and the sound broke something in me. She sat beside my bed and picked up my collar, pressing it to her chest. I wanted to tell her I was okay. That I wasn’t in pain anymore. That I could still hear her voice, and I still followed her around, invisible paws padding softly behind.
Later that day, she opened the back door. The sunlight spilled across the grass, golden and warm. She stood there for a long time, then whispered, “Go play, Buddy.”
And I did. I ran across the yard…. light as air, fast as I used to be. The wind smelled of home, of us. Before I went too far, I turned back. She was smiling through tears.
That’s when I knew she could feel me, just enough.
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