I’d been visiting the hospital with my therapy dog, Riley, for a while now. Most patients lit up the moment they saw him—stroking his golden fur, laughing at his happy tail wags.
But today was different.
The nurses led us into a quiet room where an elderly man lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He looked tired, distant—like he hadn’t spoken in a while. His name was Mr. Callahan.
“They say he hasn’t responded much,” one nurse whispered. “Maybe Riley can help.”
I nodded and gave Riley the command. Without hesitation, he hopped onto the bed, resting his head gently on Mr. Callahan’s chest.
Silence.
Then, a deep inhale.
The man’s hand twitched, barely moving at first, then slowly resting on Riley’s fur.
I held my breath.
And then, in a raspy, almost-forgotten voice, he murmured, “Good boy.”
The nurse gasped. My eyes stung.
But what he said next… none of us were prepared for.
“Marigold…” The word slipped out like a forgotten melody, fragile but clear.
“Marigold?” I repeated softly, unsure if I’d heard correctly.