For four days, he paced by the front door, whining softly, refusing to eat or be comforted. And then, this morning, they finally opened the patrol car door for him—one last time. He leapt in without hesitation, as if he knew exactly where they were going.
The ceremony was solemn. Flags were folded, badges gleamed, and the weight of silence said more than words could. I stood quietly near the back. I wasn’t part of the department, just a local journalist, but I’d seen the officer and his K9 together more times than I could count. Always moving in sync. Everyone talked about how well-trained the dog was—but I saw something more: the bond, the loyalty.
And now, he was here. Paws resting gently on the casket, nose pressed to the wood.
No bark. No growl. Just a slow, steady sniff. As if trying to make sense of something that didn’t.
The officer gripping his leash was struggling to stay composed. His knuckles were pale from the strain. But the dog didn’t notice—or maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he just needed to confirm something for himself.
There was a detail people weren’t talking about. Officer Silas wasn’t even supposed to be on duty that night. And the call that sent him out? No record. No trace. The final radio transmission didn’t quite sound like him either.
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