HE HADN’T SPOKEN IN WEEKS—UNTIL THE DOG SAT IN FRONT OF HIM

We didn’t expect much.

Mr. Halvorsen hadn’t said a word since early December. The staff called it “sunsetting,” like a soft fade. No family visited anymore. His meals came back mostly untouched. He just sat near the window in his wheelchair, staring at the parking lot like he was waiting for someone who’d long since forgotten how to find him.

When we brought in Sunny—the golden retriever therapy dog—most of the residents lit up, asked for belly rubs and sloppy kisses.

But Mr. Halvorsen didn’t even blink.

Still, Sunny padded over, sat in front of him, and gently rested her head on his knees.

We all held our breath.

He looked down. Then his hands—slow, shaking—moved toward her fur.

And that’s when we heard it.

A voice, low and cracked like an old record:
“Had a dog just like you. Named her Mags.”

He didn’t look up. Just kept petting her.
But we all looked at each other. Because it had been 42 days.

Now he asks if Sunny’s coming every Thursday. He even told us a story about Mags and a fishing trip that ended with soaked boots and stolen sandwiches.

But today, his daughter called.

She wants to move him to a “cheaper facility.”

And they don’t allow animals.

(read the continuation in the first cᴑmment)