he sky over Rivne’s Green Meadows Cemetery was dense with late-March clouds. A damp, terrible air clung to the mourners attended to say goodbye to six-year-old Sofiya Kovalenko.
She stood a small white coffin, too delicate, too final at the center. Wild dreams lay on top.
Whispers floated through the air, tears silently fell, but none grieved deeper than her father, Roman Kovalenko. He stood still, hollow-eyed, frozen in silent grief.
Just as the farewell was about to start, an unexpected sound br0ke the stillness—paws pounding against the wet ground.
“Dakota?!” someone grasped.
