Funeral homes are usually quiet, but that day the silence felt unbearable. It pressed on my chest like a weight, stealing every breath. My brother Finn lay in a polished casket at the front of the room. People whispered condolences. Some cried softly. Others stood stiff and unreadable.
The only sound breaking through the heavy air came from Finn’s dog, Scrappy. He wasn’t lying still in mourning the way people expected. No—he was clawing furiously at the side of the casket, nails scraping wood, body trembling.
At first, some thought it was grief. A loyal dog not ready to let go of his master. But I knew better. This wasn’t sorrow. It was a warning.
