At Liza’s funeral, grief filled the air—but it was the dog’s frantic barking that drew everyone’s attention. The animal wouldn’t stop pulling toward the white coffin, as if trying to reach the girl it had lost.

Her grandfather stood silently, hands in his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the casket. Liza had passed far too young. As the dog howled, some thought it was mourning. But the old man felt something else—something off.

Ignoring whispers around him—“He’s lost his mind…”—he stepped forward and placed a hand on the lid. That’s when he heard it: a faint sound, like a whimper.

Despite protests from the crowd, he tore the coffin open. Inside, beside Liza’s still body, was her beloved cat, Lea—lifeless, curled up beside her.

The cat had likely slipped in to say goodbye, her heart giving out from grief. The old man fell to his knees in tears—not just for Liza, but for the pure, loyal love that even animals show in death.

People in town talked about that funeral for a long time—not because of the tragedy, but because of the heartbreakingly real way love said goodbye.