Noah lay quietly on his play mat, eyes gazing at nothing, his tiny body still and silent. Max, the golden retriever puppy, padded over and gently lay beside him. With a curious nudge, Max sniffed Noah’s hand and gave it a tender lick.
“He moved… toward Max!”
He knelt beside her, watching. “Could be just a reflex.”
“No, it wasn’t. He reached for him.”
As they watched, Max softly nudged closer. Noah’s gaze shifted—and then, something even more shocking: a faint smile formed on his lips.
Michael stared. “He smiled… Sarah, he smiled.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “He hasn’t smiled in weeks.”
That night, Max curled up beneath Noah’s crib, one paw resting gently against it. Sarah held the baby monitor, unable to look away.
“I’m calling Dr. Emmons tomorrow,” she whispered.
“She’ll say we imagined it,” Michael replied.
“Maybe,” Sarah said. “But what if we didn’t?”
They sat in silence, listening to the soft rhythm of Max’s breathing. For the first time in a long while, something had shifted.
Noah had responded. Not to medicine. Not to machines. But to the warmth of a puppy’s love.
In Sarah’s heart, one word began to bloom:
Hope.