And somehow, that one night turned into years of quiet routines and unspoken understanding, the kind that builds slowly until you don’t notice it anymore, until one day you realize that the silence in your house isn’t empty—it’s shared.
Archer filled every corner of that silence.
He was there for the small things no one else ever saw—the late dinners eaten standing up in the kitchen, the nights when sleep wouldn’t come, the mornings that felt heavier than they should have. He had this way of resting his head on my knee like he understood more than he should, like he knew that sometimes just being there was enough.
So when he got sick, there was never a question of what I would do.
I fought.
At first, it was subtle. He slowed down on our walks, lagging just a step behind where he used to lead. He slept more. Ate less. The kind of changes you can explain away if you want to believe nothing is wrong. But then came the diagnosis, and suddenly everything had a name, a timeline, a weight that settled into my chest and refused to leave.
