“Sometimes,” the chaplain murmured, his voice barely audible, “dogs see what we cannot.”
The words sent a ripple of unease through the room. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. Orion’s behavior wasn’t normal. He was highly trained and wouldn’t react like this unless there was something there.
Then, without warning, Orion let out a soft, breathy whimper. It wasn’t the mournful cry from before. This was different—subtle, questioning. His tail wagged just barely, and he lifted his head an inch higher, his ears twitching as though listening for something faint and distant.
And then, he relaxed.
Not fully, but enough for those closest to him to notice. Margaret’s throat tightened. She took a hesitant step forward.
“Orion?” she whispered.
The dog didn’t react to her. It was as if, for a moment, he wasn’t here. He was somewhere else entirely—a place where sorrow didn’t weigh so heavily, a place beyond this room, beyond the funeral, beyond death itself.
The chaplain inhaled sharply, his hands tightening around the small Bible he held. His expression was unreadable, but his fingers trembled slightly.
Then, Orion blinked and exhaled a deep sigh. His body softened, his tail curled loosely around his side. He turned his head, looking at Elijah’s face one last time before lowering his head to his chest.
The room remained utterly still, as if waiting for something else to happen. But nothing did.
