At Liza’s funeral, the room was heavy with sorrow—but it was the dog’s desperate barking that broke through the quiet grief. The golden retriever strained against its leash, pulling toward the white casket like it was trying to reach the girl it had lost.
Her grandfather stood nearby, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, eyes locked on the coffin. Liza had died far too young. Most people assumed the dog was mourning—but something about the way it acted didn’t sit right with him.
Ignoring the murmurs around him—“He’s just overwhelmed…” “Poor man’s losing it…”—he stepped forward and gently placed a hand on the lid. That’s when he heard it: a soft, almost imperceptible sound. A whimper.
Despite gasps and protests, he pried the lid open.
Inside, lying beside Liza’s still form, was her cat, Lea—curled up as if still protecting her. The cat was lifeless.
And suddenly, the dog fell silent.
