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Then, as if held back by an invisible force, the horse stopped abruptly, just a few steps from the coffin. It stood motionless, like a statue, its gaze unwavering. The villagers slowly regained their composure, but no one dared approach.
They tried to shoo it away, shouting and waving, but the horse seemed oblivious to their efforts. It stood there, facing the coffin, as if the rest of the world had vanished. When the time came for the final farewell, something extraordinary and heart-wrenching happened.
The horse lowered its head and let out a long, mournful whinny, like a cry of sorrow. Then, to the astonishment of all, it raised its front hoof and gently tapped the coffin lid. Once.
Then again. The hollow sound of hoof on wood rang out in the stillness, as if the horse were trying to call to the one inside, to rouse them from an eternal sleep. 
The crowd fell silent, barely daring to breathe.
An elderly woman, her voice trembling, whispered, “That’s his horse…” Memories began to surface. The man in the coffin—the kind old man of the village—had raised this horse from a frail foal. They were inseparable.
He had cared for it, fed it, walked it even in the harshest winter days. The horse was his only true companion, loved like family. Everything became clear.
The horse hadn’t come by chance or madness. It had sensed the loss. From deep within the forest, it had come to say goodbye to its master.
The ceremony ended, and the villagers quietly departed, but the horse remained, its head bowed beside the coffin. No one could bear to lead it away. It stood in silence, as if standing guard over the friend who was gone forever.
Under the fading light of the sunset, the horse’s silhouette cast a shadow on the earth, a symbol of loyalty and love that transcended the boundaries of life and death.
