The sky was glowing gold as the sun began to sink behind the trees. I picked up the stick — the same one she always chased — and threw it as far as I could.
“Go get it, Luna!”
She dashed off, tail wagging, her body full of life and energy. Every leap, every bound, was pure joy.
But this time… she didn’t come back.

At first, I laughed. I thought she was playing one of her little games, hiding behind the bushes, waiting to surprise me.
But then the laughter faded.
Seconds passed. Then minutes.
And the silence became heavy.
I called her name.
Once. Twice. Again and again.
No bark. No rustle. Just the wind whispering through the leaves — cold, distant, unfamiliar.

And then I saw her.
Lying there in the grass, eyes half-closed, still and silent.
For a second, I thought she was resting. But as I knelt beside her, the truth crashed over me like a wave.
Her heart had stopped.
And with it, so had mine.

I don’t remember if I screamed. Maybe I did. Or maybe the scream stayed trapped somewhere deep inside me, where no one could hear it.
The stick — that stupid stick — lay beside her, mocking me. A symbol of everything that had just shattered.
Moments earlier, it meant joy. Now it meant goodbye.

Luna wasn’t just a dog.
She was a soul that understood me without words.
When life broke me, she was there — resting her head on my lap, breathing slowly, telling me in her silent way: “I’m here. Breathe.”
She never asked for anything, never judged.
She simply loved.
Completely.

Now her leash hangs on the wall, cold and still.
Her collar rests on the table, and whenever the metal clinks, it cuts through the silence like a blade.
The house feels enormous, empty, lifeless.
Her bed is untouched, her toys scattered where she left them.
And sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I swear I can hear her — the soft tap of her paws on the floor, the sigh she made before falling asleep.
But it’s only memory.
A ghost that refuses to fade.

I go back to the park sometimes.
I sit on the same bench where she used to rest by my feet.
My hand reaches out, instinctively, to pet the air.
And for a heartbeat, I almost feel her there.
Warm. Alive. Free.
Maybe she’s running somewhere, through endless fields of light, where time doesn’t exist and pain can’t follow.
Maybe she’s waiting.

People say animals don’t have souls.
That they don’t feel like we do.
But those who say that have never looked into a dog’s eyes at the end — that calm, trusting gaze that says more than any words could.
Luna looked at me like that before she went.
And in that look, there was peace.
As if she was telling me: “Don’t cry. I’m still here.”

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t thrown that stick.
That we’d stayed home, that she’d still be lying by my feet, dreaming her quiet dog dreams.
But then I realize — without that moment, I would never have had all the years of laughter, warmth, and love she gave me.
And I wouldn’t trade a single second of it.
Because Luna taught me what unconditional love truly means.
Love without words. Without limits. Without end.

So I write this, to keep her alive.
To let her name live between the lines.
Because when you lose a dog, you don’t just lose a pet —
you lose a heartbeat that matched your own.

Sleep well, Luna.
You were my miracle, my calm in the storm, my light in the dark.
And as long as my heart beats, every single thump will whisper your name.
Forever my treasure.