This wasn’t a dog reacting to grief.
This was a dog refusing something.
At the back of the room, Lena Caldwell sat perfectly still.
She wore black, simple and unadorned, her posture straight in a way that read, to most people, as composure. Her daughter, six-year-old Sophie, leaned against her side, small fingers curled into the fabric of her dress as though anchoring herself to something that might otherwise drift away.
Lena hadn’t cried. Not publicly, at least.
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