Every day at 4 PM sharp, my grandma curled up in her recliner with her two dogs, always in that exact order—Coco, the old Chihuahua in diapers, on her chest, and Max, the Shih Tzu, curled at her feet like a sleepy sentry. She said they liked the rhythm of her breathing. That it calmed them down.
I believed her.
That afternoon, I walked in with her mail like always, expecting to hear that soft hum she did when she thought no one was listening. But the room was… still.
Too still.
She was lying there with her eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips, Coco nestled deep into her neck like he was trying to melt into her. Max lifted his head when I stepped in, looked at me—then looked back at her. Didn’t wag his tail. Didn’t move an inch.
“Grandma?”
I waited for her usual reply: “Don’t sneak up on me, child. I’m not dead yet.”
Except this time, she didn’t say it.
I moved closer. Touched her shoulder. Her skin was still warm. Her chest was rising. Barely
