Grief hung heavy in the air at Liza’s funeral. Mourners stood in silence—until a sudden commotion broke the stillness. Her dog had started barking wildly, straining at the leash, desperate to get to the white coffin at the front of the room.
People tried to soothe the animal, assuming it was mourning. But Liza’s grandfather—standing quietly with his hands in his coat pockets—couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
While others whispered, “He’s losing it…” he slowly stepped forward. Placing his hand on the coffin, he paused. Then he heard it—soft, almost impossible to catch. A tiny whimper.
Ignoring the protests, he pried the lid open.
Inside, lying still beside Liza’s body, was her beloved cat, Lea—curled up as if keeping watch, now lifeless. She must have snuck in during the final moments, and quietly passed from heartbreak.
The old man dropped to his knees, overcome with emotion. He wept—not only for Liza, but for the quiet, unwavering love animals carry with them… even into death.
For years, people in town would speak of that day—not just because of the loss, but because of the way love showed up to say goodbye one last time.
