They say the dog walks closer to time than we do —
not counting years,
not fearing endings.
He stays when days grow short,
when laughter fades into whispers,
when the house forgets how to be loud.
He does not ask why you forget his name,
why your hands no longer reach for him.
He does not grieve when your eyes pass over him like a stranger.
He only stays.
His paws are soft against forgotten floors.
His breath hums quietly through the hollow spaces.
His eyes reflect the faces you once loved,
and the stories you no longer tell.
The elders believe he is not only a friend,
but a keeper of memories —
gathering every gentle touch,
every shared sunrise,
every silent promise made in passing.
When the spirit grows tired and shadows lengthen,
he does not pull you back.
He simply walks slower,
matching your steps,
until you remember again — even for a moment —
that love was always beside you.
They call him Rokan — The One Who Waits When the World Grows Quiet.
