The door to the room opened. Not with a jerk or a knock, but slowly, as if in hesitation, with a quiet, prolonged creak.
Following, stepping silently, a German Shepherd entered the room. In that same instant, everyone present turned their heads. The nurses, who had been quietly and efficiently doing their work, froze mid-step.
It seemed as if the whole room held its breath. Even the steady rhythm of the heart monitor seemed to skip a beat. The dog’s name was Max. And he had come to say goodbye.
In a small hospital crib lay Ilya. He was only eight months old. His tiny, fragile body was wrapped in soft blue blankets. A web of thin tubes extended from his small hands, connecting the child to machines that beeped and hummed softly in the prevailing silence.
His breathing was shallow, barely audible—a broken whisper in the quiet room. But in the very moment Max crossed the threshold, something in the air subtly changed.
Max approached the crib with deliberate caution, taking one soft step after another. His tail was down, not wagging. In his deep, intelligent eyes, one could read confusion and sorrow. He gently nudged the plastic side of the crib with his wet nose.
And then…
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