The doctors spoke gently, their words wrapped in compassion. “It’s time to prepare,” they said. The old man’s heart was slowing, his lungs weakening. He didn’t have much time left.
Henry Walsh was eighty-seven, and though his body was frail, his mind still drifted to the open fields beyond his window. He sat quietly in his wheelchair, wrapped in a blanket, watching the land he had worked his entire life. His children, Daniel and Claire, cared for him around the clock, moving softly through the house as sunlight spread across the winter fields.
But what Henry thought of most wasn’t the harvests or the years of labor—it was his horse, Samson.
Samson had been more than a work animal. He was Henry’s companion, his partner through decades of storms, long days, and quiet evenings. The two had spent countless hours together, side by side, when the farm thrived and when it struggled. Henry used to joke that Samson understood him better than most people did.
Now, Samson lived a few miles away, cared for by a kind neighbor since Henry’s health began to fail. Still, Henry missed him deeply. Every evening, he’d gaze out the window and whisper, “Wish I could see you again, old friend.”
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