Pippin kicked a stone across the village square. It bounced and clattered against an old wooden box.
He lifted the lid. Gold coins glowed — and a small dog curled up beside them. A whisper filled his ears: Choose.
The dog sneezed. Pippin scooped him up and pushed the box away. You're mine, he whispered.
They ran through the village. Butterflies danced ahead, and the dog bounded after them, all paws and joy.
The dog tripped over his own paws and landed with a splash in a mud puddle. Pippin laughed until his sides hurt.
Years passed. The dog grew slow. He napped in the sunbeam by the door each afternoon.
One morning he did not wake. Pippin sat beside him and held his hand on the dog's side, feeling the slow breath.
Pippin placed the smooth stone on the grave. The wind rustled the oak leaves like a bark. He walked home, lighter.