Margaret clutched the edge of the pew, her face pale, her eyes swollen from hours of crying. Around her, the rows of soldiers sat frozen, their crisp uniforms a stark contrast to the raw emotion on their faces. They had fought alongside Elijah, seen him walk through hell and come back. But nothing had prepared them for the sight of Orion, curled against his chest, refusing to let go.
An officer cautiously approached, reaching for Orion’s collar. The dog let out a deep, warning growl—not aggressive, but protective, desperate. His grip on Elijah’s uniform tightened, his nails pressing into the fabric as if anchoring himself to the man who had been his entire world.
“Let him be,” said Chaplain Reynolds softly. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of finality. “He’s grieving, just like the rest of us.”
Margaret wiped her tears with shaky fingers. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “He doesn’t understand. He thinks Elijah is coming back.”
The words hung in the air, suffocating.
Orion let out a small whimper and nudged Elijah’s arm with his nose, just as he had done on the battlefield when his handler had been knocked down. It was a signal: Get up, soldier. But there was no response.
Then, suddenly, Orion’s body stiffened. His ears pricked up, his breathing grew shallow, and his head lifted slightly. His dark eyes locked onto something in the distance—something no one else could see.
A chill ran through the room, almost imperceptible, but enough to make the hairs on the back of Margaret’s neck stand up.
“What is it, boy?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Orion didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He just kept staring, his body tense, his gaze unwavering.
