“Don’t go closer, sir,” the groundskeeper warned. “That dog hasn’t moved in three days.”
The biker froze, rain dripping from his helmet. At the cemetery gate, a small brown puppy lay curled in the cold dirt — silent, soaked, and staring at a single gravestone.
He crouched down, whispering softly, “Hey, buddy… who are you waiting for?”
The puppy lifted its head weakly, eyes glassy but full of something deeper than pain — loyalty.
The man sighed, “You don’t even know… they’re gone.”
But when he brought a little girl there the next day, the truth behind that dog’s vigil left everyone speechless.
It was one of those quiet autumn mornings in rural Ohio — the kind that made even engines sound lonely.
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