September had been warm, dry, and sunny. The low autumn sun glared straight into your eyes, especially in the late afternoon. Roman flipped down the sun visor. Being tall, it shielded him, but Dasha…
How many times had he told her to leave the car at home? He’d drive her to work, pick her up in the evening. The trouble was, their shifts didn’t line up.
*”It’s sweet you worry about me,”* she’d say, nuzzling against him. *”But I drive carefully—you’ve seen me. I can’t manage without the car.”*
*”Fine, but at least promise you’ll wear sunglasses,”* he’d grumble. *”Rain’s coming next week, and that’s no better—wet roads, puddles, slippery tarmac. Either way, it’s risky.”*
*”You’re such a worrier,”* she’d laugh, kissing his cheek. *”I’ll be fine. Promise.”*
Roman parked outside their flat and glanced up at the third-floor windows. The sun glared off the glass—were the blinds down or not? If not, the place would be sweltering by now.
Dasha’s car wasn’t there. Odd. She usually beat him home by an hour, dinner nearly ready. No missed calls, no texts. He pocketed his phone, locked the car, and headed inside.
***
They’d met eighteen months ago. Roman was driving home when he spotted a car pulled over, door open, and a petite, flustered woman beside it. Flat tyre. He stopped to help. They started dating soon after.
Dasha had been renting a place—tiny, stubborn, fiercely independent. With her, Roman felt strong, protective. She hated that, insisting she could handle herself. Soon, he suggested moving in together. Why waste money on rent when she slept at his most nights?
His bachelor pad transformed under her touch. Throw blankets, colourful cushions, soft lamps—suddenly it felt like a home. The air always smelled of baking or something sweet. Even the one-bed flat felt cosy, lived-in.
Then one evening, she brought home a muddy puppy, shivering under a bush by their building.
*”Dasha, what the hell?”* Roman scowled. *”He’s filthy, probably sick. And he’ll ruin everything.”* He’d never been a pet person.
*”Look at him!”* She cradled the trembling pup to her chest. *”He’d have died out there. I’ll wash him, take him to the vet tomorrow. He’s perfect, isn’t he?”*
*”Leave him at the clinic,”* Roman muttered.
The look she gave him said it all: argue further, and she’d walk out—with the dog. And he couldn’t bear that. He’d never loved anyone like her. So he gave in.
Dasha named the pup Rex—ridiculously grand for a scrappy mutt. The pup perked up at the sound, ears pricked.
*”See? He loves it!”* she beamed.
*”Rex!”* Roman called. The dog ignored him, twitching an ear as if to say, *”Piss off.”*
With regular meals, Rex filled out. Within months, he was a decent-sized dog with glossy golden fur—some retriever in there, maybe. Roman played with him, but Rex worshipped Dasha, trailing her everywhere, ignoring Roman’s commands. He even felt a twinge of jealousy.
Life was good. Even Rex grew on him. Kids could wait. For now, the three of them were happy.
***
Roman heard Rex whining before he even reached the door. The moment it opened, the dog shot past him toward the stairs.
Roman sighed, locked up, and followed. *”Easy, mate,”* he muttered as Rex scratched at the building’s front door. Normally, he waited for the lead. Tonight, he was frantic. Outside, Rex darted ahead, glancing back as if urging Roman to hurry.
*”Alright, alright. Where’re you going?”*
Rex kept running, stopping only to check Roman followed. Then he bolted toward the main road.
*”Stop! Bloody hell—where are you—?”*
Roman’s chest tightened. Rex only ran like this for Dasha. Something was wrong.
They raced through the park, then cut across backstreets. Roman’s lungs burned. Ahead, Rex’s barking grew frantic. He sprinted harder, cursing the dog’s energy, vowing to take up jogging.
They reached a narrow road lined with old terraced houses. Rex stood on the curb, sniffing the ground. Roman froze. Shattered glass littered the tarmac. Rex whined, then barked hoarsely.
A boy, about ten, tinkered in a front garden.
*”Hey, lad—what happened here?”* Roman shouted over Rex’s noise.
*”Crash,”* the boy said. *”Saw an ambulance leave. Then a tow truck took the wreck.”*
*”What colour was the car?”*
*”Dunno. Red?”*
Roman dialled the hospital, voice shaking. *”Was there a call earlier? Which one? Thanks.”*
He ran back to the car, Rex still glued to the spot.
By the time he reached the hospital, night had fallen. A doctor eyed him wearily.
*”You are?”*
*”Her husband.”*
*”I’m sorry. She didn’t make it.”*
Roman’s knees buckled. *”Let me see her.”*
The doctor hesitated. *”It’s not… pleasant.”*
*”I need to know it’s her.”*
In the morgue, he recognised Dasha by her small frame, battered and bloodied. The room spun. A howl tore from his throat—his own.
Outside, he crumpled against the wall, sobbing. *”Why her?”*
*”The other driver was blinded by the sun,”* the doctor said quietly before walking away.
Roman didn’t remember driving home. Only then did he realise Rex wasn’t with him. He drove back to the crash site. The dog lay on the curb, lifting his head weakly.
*”Rex. Home.”*
No reaction.
*”Come on. Dasha’s waiting.”* The lie tasted bitter.
Rex followed, sluggish, glancing back. In the car, he whined. At home, he paced, sniffing, whimpering. That night, he howled by the door until the neighbour banged on the wall.
*”Shut him up!”*
*”Trying,”* Roman muttered.
*”See? Even they’re fed up. Grieve quietly, like me.”*
Rex nosed his knee. Roman’s throat tightened. *”You miss her too, huh?”*
He opened the door. *”Go on, then. Leave me too.”*
But he followed, unlocking the building’s main door.
The next days blurred—paperwork, funeral arrangements. Roman drank himself to sleep. One night, Rex’s barking woke him. Silence. He passed out again.
After the funeral, Rex reappeared—dirty, thin. Roman fed him, but the dog only picked at the food before collapsing by Dasha’s slippers.
Morning came. Rex scratched at the door.
*”Fine. Run off again.”*
The flat screamed of Dasha. Roman hurled cushions, books, anything of hers. It didn’t help. He hadn’t realised how much he loved her until she was gone.
*Why didn’t I stop her driving? Why didn’t I propose? A kid might’ve kept her home—*
Nights were worst. He’d wake to phantom sounds—Dasha shifting, Rex’s claws on the floor. One night, he wandered to the crash site. Something rustled in the dark. His phone light revealed Rex—gaunt, tail barely wagging.
Roman lay beside him in the wet grass. When he woke, stiff and freezing, Rex was still. No breath.
*”Lucky you,”* Roman whispered.
He dug a shallow grave under the bushes, buried Rex, then sat there till dawn. Passers-by avoided him—filthy, tear-streaked, clutching a shovel.
At home, he downed vodka, ignoring his churning stomach. The mirror showed a stranger—red-eyed, grime-covered. Someone knocked. He ignored it.
Days later, he finally left the flat. Drizzly, cold. He walked aimlessly, ending up at a near-empty pet market. A boy held a shivering, soaked puppy—just like Dasha’s.
*”Buy him, mister?”* the kid pleaded. *”Dad’ll drown him.”*
*”How much?”*
The boy hesitated. *”Never mind. You don’t want him.”*
*”Try me.”* Roman’s voice cracked. *”I need him.”*
The kid relented, accepting a crumpled two-pound coin.
*”His name’s Rex!”* he called as Roman walked away.
The puppy peed on the floor the moment they got home. RomanThe next morning, sunlight spilled through the curtains, and for the first time in weeks, Roman didn’t flinch when the pup licked his hand—because in that tiny, hopeful blink of a moment, it almost felt like Dasha had left them both a way to keep living.
