the baby’s tiny hand moved.
Ilya’s fingers, almost weightless, managed to touch the thick fur on Max’s head. The movement was incredibly weak, just a slight flutter, but it was real.
And then Ilya smiled. It wasn’t just a grimace, but a real, discernible smile. The first anyone in that room had seen in days.
His mother, Anna Shevchenko, standing by the crib, let out a choked gasp. Her hand flew to her mouth as a fresh wave of tears rolled down her cheeks.
Dr. Petrenko, standing beside her—a man trained to maintain composure—had to turn away. His own eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Max didn’t bark. He didn’t whine or move. He just stood there, breathing slowly and evenly, never taking his eyes off the little boy he had faithfully protected since the day he was brought home from the hospital.
For months, Max had been a silent, worried witness to Ilya’s declining health. It all started with a high fever and then escalated into long, grueling stays in this very hospital…
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