I put my phone on silent at 8:12 p.m.—the official hour of “my heart is too heavy for company.”

A minute later, I saw it:

A notification from my memories' app.

A video.

Of my dog.

Timestamped 8:12.

I hit play.

That familiar little bark floated out, the one that always sounded like he was asking a question.

His tail thumped against the floor—slow, steady, like a heartbeat made of hope.

Replay.

Replay again.

His breath.

The tiny pause before he tilted his head.

The jingling of his tags—our old house soundtrack.

Back then, 8:12 p.m. was his magic hour.

That was when he’d wait by the door, ready for our evening walk, staring at me like I was the entire universe wrapped in a hoodie.

Sometimes I’d come home late and find him sitting by the window, tail sweeping the floor like a tiny broom of forgiveness.

Tonight, my apartment felt too quiet.

Even the rain outside sounded lonely, tapping the window like a soft reminder I didn’t ask for.

I promised myself:

Tomorrow.

At 8:12.

I’ll light his candle again.

The next night at exactly 8:12, I was still drowning in emails, my brain fried like someone left it on a skillet.

I ducked into the hallway and opened my phone.

I played another old clip.

Just a few seconds.

Him running.

Him smiling.

Him existing.

It stitched something in me back together.

The next night, I did it again.

And again.

Nothing dramatic.

Just love exchanged in spoonfuls.

I’d look at his old collar.

The worn spots where my fingers used to rest.

The tiny scratch on the tag from the time he tried to “fight” a bush.

I’d whisper a memory to him:

How he stole socks like they were treasure.

How he barked at balloons.

How he’d tuck his nose under my hand like he was plugging himself into a charger.

Sunday, I drove out to the park where we used to go.

It looked the same—just slightly older, like me.

I sat on our bench and placed a little paw-shaped candle on it.

Not bright, not fancy—just a soft glow with a couple of very committed moths dancing around it.

A woman walking her dog smiled at me.

For a second, I almost expected my boy to run up beside her, tongue hanging out, telling me I was taking too long.

“I still light a candle for him at 8:12,” I said quietly, as if he could hear.

He always understood quiet things.

The winter came early this year.

The kind that makes everything sound like a memory.

One night, at 8:12, I came home tired and frozen.

I forgot.

When I finally lit the candle at 8:27, the flame flickered in this soft, forgiving way —

like it was saying:

“It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

We’re people, not clocks.

And pets?

They were never clocks either.

They never cared about minutes — only moments.

Now I keep a small lamp by the window.

Next to his picture.

Next to his collar.

Every night at 8:12 — or 8:18 or 9:03 — I turn it on.

A tiny lighthouse for a soul made of fur.

A reminder:

Love doesn’t leave.

It just changes where it waits.

If you’re lucky enough to have a pet beside you right now — go give them a moment that matters.

And if your furry angel watches from heaven…

light a little glow for them tonight.

Because sometimes the softest light says the biggest thing:

“Here. Still here.”