The rain had just stopped when we arrived at Rosewood Cemetery. A faint drizzle still hung in the air, and the ground was soft under our shoes. People whispered condolences, wiped their eyes, and shuffled under black umbrellas. My father, Richard Hale, had died three days ago from what doctors said was a massive heart attack in his sleep. He was sixty-one, healthy for his age, gone without warning.
I was numb. I didn’t cry at the church. I didn’t cry at the gravesite. Grief hadn’t settled in—it just hovered above me, heavy and distant.Beside the coffin sat Max, my father’s golden retriever. He had been my father’s shadow—followed him everywhere, even waited outside the hardware store until Dad came out. During the wake, Max refused to leave the casket, lying there quietly, head resting on his paws.But at the cemetery, something changed.
