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.
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.Mr. Callahan turned his head slightly toward me, his cloudy blue eyes flickering with something that resembled recognition. “She used to bring me flowers every Sunday. Marigolds. Said they matched my hair when I was young.” A faint smile played on his lips as he scratched behind Riley’s ears absentmindedly. “She always brought them, even after…” His voice trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished, heavy with unspoken memories.
