Milo wasn’t always the bright-eyed happy puppy everyone knew. He had a difficult beginning—found shivering behind a trash bin on a rainy afternoon, barely strong enough to stand. But then came Lily. She was only ten years old at the time, wearing a yellow raincoat and a smile that felt like sunrise after a storm. She wrapped him gently in her jacket and whispered, “You’re safe now.”

From that moment, Milo decided that Lily was his entire world.

As he grew, he learned every sound of the house—the kettle’s whistle, the doorbell, the crunch of cereal in the morning. But the sound his ears always waited for was the front door opening at exactly 3:00 p.m. when Lily came home from school. He would run to the window, press his head against the glass, and wag his tail so much that the curtains moved with him.

They played every afternoon. Sometimes fetch, sometimes hide and seek, sometimes they simply sat together without words. Milo especially loved when Lily did homework on the floor—because he would curl up beside her and pretend he was helping. She would pat his head and say, “You make everything better, Milo.” He didn’t understand the words—but he understood her heart.

But as Lily got older, school got harder. She spent more time studying and less time playing. Some days, she looked tired and quiet. Milo sensed it immediately. His tail wagged slower. His ears drooped. He stayed closer to her—watching her with worried eyes. When she cried silently after a rough test, Milo licked her tears and laid his head on her knees as if saying, Let me carry some of that sadness for you.

One winter morning, Lily got sick. Fever, cough, fatigue. She stayed in bed for days. Milo refused to leave her side. He didn’t chase toys or ask for walks. Instead, he brought her his favorite stuffed bone—placing it beside her pillow, hoping it might make her smile. He paced around the room whenever she coughed. He slept only when she slept. It was as if her heartbeat had become his.

Slowly, she recovered. On the first day she could walk again, she opened the window and felt the cold air rush in. Milo jumped beside her, tail wagging wildly. Lily whispered, “You never left me—not even once.” That day, she didn’t just get better physically. She got better inside, too.

But life changed again when Lily entered middle school. Longer hours. New friends. Less time at home. Milo still waited at the window every morning—7:00 a.m. sharp when she left, and 4:30 p.m. when she returned. She sometimes forgot to pat him on the head. Sometimes didn’t notice his excited tail. But he waited anyway. Because love doesn’t keep score—it keeps hope.

One day, Lily came home in tears—not from sickness, but loneliness. Her friends had left her out. She felt small. Unseen. But Milo came running—as if he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. He nudged her hand, licked her face, and laid beside her on the floor… silently telling her that sometimes the truest friend is the one who never asks you to explain why you’re sad.

And that’s when Lily finally understood: Milo never waited for her because he was bored.
He waited because love does not know clocks or calendars — it only knows devotion.

From then on, Lily made a promise:
“I might grow older, but I’ll never grow too busy for you.”

And every day after school—no matter how tired she was—she sat by the window with Milo.
Not because he needed it.

But because she finally realized… she did.