Luna sat quietly today, nothing like her usual playful self. Her small body leaned toward dad, shoulders slumped, energy gone. When she lifted her face, it was enough to tell the whole story. Her eyes looked heavy and dull, no sparkle, no mischief—only discomfort. She didn’t scream or throw a tantrum. She simply looked up, as if asking for help in the only way she could.
Dad noticed immediately. He crouched down, calling her name softly. Luna responded with a weak sound, more like a sigh than a call. She reached out slowly and touched his arm, holding on tighter than usual. It wasn’t play. It was trust. Her face seemed to say, “Dad, something is wrong.”
She refused food she normally loved. Milk stayed untouched. That worried everyone even more. Luna rested her head against dad’s chest, breathing shallow and uneven. Her little hands felt warmer than normal. Every movement looked like effort. Even blinking seemed tiring.
Dad stayed close, gently rubbing her back, whispering comfort. He checked her face again and again, reading every tiny change. Luna didn’t resist. She let herself be held, something she only did when she truly didn’t feel well. Her body curled inward, seeking warmth and safety.
The room grew quiet, filled with concern instead of noise. Luna’s sickness wasn’t loud, but it was clear. Her silence spoke louder than any cry. She looked up one more time, eyes meeting dad’s, full of need and trust. He promised softly that she wouldn’t be alone, that she would be cared for, watched, protected.
Today wasn’t about play or training. It was about comfort. About listening to what a small face can say without words. Luna rested in dad’s arms, weak but safe, hoping tomorrow her strength would return. Until then, love stayed close, watching over her, waiting patiently for her smile to come back again.
