In a quiet village by an ancient forest, mourners gathered around a fresh grave. Prayers mingled with the rustle of leaves—until the thunder of hooves broke the silence.

A chestnut horse with a white-marked forehead burst from the trees, galloping straight toward the coffin. Panic rippled through the crowd, but the animal’s eyes never left its destination.

Reaching the coffin, the horse lowered its head and let out a long, aching whinny. Then it tapped the lid twice with its hoof—soft, hollow knocks, as if calling to its master.

Gasps spread as an elderly woman whispered, “That’s his horse.” The man in the coffin had raised it from a sickly foal, their bond unbroken until death.

The ceremony ended, but the horse stayed, standing vigil beside the coffin until the sun dipped low—its shadow a silent testament to loyalty that even death could not sever.