She stopped chasing shadows, stopped playing fetch. Mostly, she slept. Sometimes she’d spend whole nights in the barn, lying silent, like the world had nothing left for her.

That morning, I figured she was out there again—ignoring my calls, sleeping through the noise. But something felt off. Maybe it was instinct. Or guilt—I hadn’t exactly been patient with her lately, too caught up fixing fences and chasing imaginary foxes. So I grabbed a biscuit from the jar, pulled on my boots, and headed out to the barn.

Inside, everything was quiet. Dust drifted through the early sunlight breaking between the wooden slats. The familiar smells of hay, old tools, and motor oil wrapped around me. But there was something else. A faint sound I couldn’t place—soft, almost too soft.

I stepped around the hay bales and crouched by the crate pile we hadn’t