It hit me sideways. This was supposed to be a place of honor. Granite and names and speeches once a year. But here was a man who’d actually served… forgotten at its base.

A woman walked by, dropped a dollar into his lap without pausing. The bill stuck to his pant leg. He didn’t move. The dog did—turned and looked at me like it knew I was watching.

That’s when I finally stepped forward. Said, “Sir… do you need anything?”

He nodded once. Barely. Then he cleared his throat, voice cracked and low, and said, “Just a name. For him.”

I blinked. “For your dog?”

He gave the smallest smile, like it hurt to do. “He’s been with me a long time. Saved me more times than I can count. But I never gave him a name. Didn’t think I had the right.”

I crouched down slowly, letting the dog sniff my hand. He was old, muzzle gray, but eyes sharp. Gentle. Loyal.

“Why now?” I asked. “Why do you want to name him today?”

The man looked toward the monument. “Today was the day I lost my squad. All of them. Same time. Same sandstorm. We never even got to say goodbye. But this dog… he was the only thing that made it out of that desert with me. I think he deserves more than silence.”

I didn’t know what to say. I looked at the memorial again, but it felt cold now. Hollow. Like it didn’t reach the people it was built for.