By-uDirgantara

The Last Bell of the Stray. AI-Generated.

On the edge of a town long forgotten by time, where train tracks were swallowed by weeds and old factories stood like skeletons of a life once lived, there was a dog. His name was Milo. No one remembered when he first appeared. Some said he wandered into town during a storm. Others believed he’d always been there — as much a part of the streets as the cracked pavement and rusted lamp posts. What people remembered, though, was the small, red collar around his neck and the tiny metal bell attached to it. It barely made a sound anymore. It was scratched, dull, and silent — much like Milo himself. He was a quiet dog. Never barked, never chased, never begged. He simply sat, every morning, at the same street corner in front of the old station café. He watched the road like a soldier on guard, eyes fixed on the horizon, ears alert but calm. Some thought he waited for his owner to return. Others assumed he had been abandoned there, and just never moved on. But no one really knew. Over time, people stopped asking. What they did know was this: Milo had a kind of stillness that made you pause. Teenagers who used to laugh loudly while passing by would quiet down near him. Elderly folks left scraps of food beside him without saying a word. Little kids approached him gently, ringing the bell on his collar with innocent curiosity. Milo didn’t flinch. He didn’t wag his tail. But he didn’t move away either. He accepted kindness like he accepted rain — without demand or expectation. Winters came, and Milo remained. Summers scorched the sidewalk, and he still sat on that same corner. As the town changed, Milo didn’t. Shops opened and closed. Families moved in and out. But he stayed. Watching. Waiting. And though the town forgot many things, it never forgot Milo. Over the years, he aged. His fur turned more gray than brown. His legs shook a little when he stood. His eyes, once sharp and searching, became misty. But still — every morning — Milo walked slowly to his corner, sat down, and stared at the road. One morning, he didn’t come. At first, no one noticed. Maybe they thought he was just sleeping in the alley, or resting under the café awning. But by noon, a little girl tugged her mother’s hand and asked, “Where’s the dog with the bell?” The town started to look. Quietly, as if not wanting to disturb the truth they feared. They found him beneath the bench where he used to nap in the afternoons. Curled up. Peaceful. The red collar still around his neck. The bell still there, unmoving. He had gone quietly, just as he had lived. A boy from the neighborhood — the same one who once brought him water every summer — picked up the bell. He placed it in a small box, wrote “Milo” on the lid, and kept it on his shelf. He didn’t say much, but he whispered as he closed the lid,