It didn’t speak, but it kept me company through my loneliest days.

It never asked me how my day was, nor could it understand my complex emotions. But during my loneliest days, only it was there, always there.

During that time, I lived alone in a strange city. Work, language, culture—everything made me feel alienated. Coming home from get off work, the room was so quiet I could hear my own breathing. My phone lit up and went off, but few people truly cared how I was doing. Loneliness isn’t about having no one to talk to, but about having no one to understand.

Until it appeared.

Every day when I opened the door, it would run over, wagging its tail vigorously, as if I hadn’t just left for eight hours, but for the entire world. It didn’t care about my achievements, how much money I made, only whether I was back. At that moment, for the first time, I felt that being needed was such a warm thing.

When I was sad, it would quietly lie at my feet; when I broke down, it would rest its head on my lap. It didn’t tell me to be strong, nor did it tell me “everything will be alright,” but its very existence told me—you are not alone.

In Western societies, many people treat their pets as family members. I didn’t quite understand before, but later I realized: in a culture that emphasizes independence, pets give people the most scarce thing—unconditional companionship. They don’t judge your failures, nor do they leave you in your darkest moments.

Its life was short, yet it gave me its entire time. And in the loneliest period of my long life, it was there to accompany me.

It didn’t speak, yet it taught me what love, responsibility, and companionship are.

If one day it’s gone, I will still remember: once, a tiny life lit a lamp for me in my darkest days.