A dog doesn’t understand death. Not the way we do. He understands silence. He understands that someone who was always there is now not.

He waits by doors that won’t open. He listens for footsteps that only memory still makes. He sniffs at the air for a scent that’s already fading.

But he never hears the words: “She’s gone.” “He passed.” “Never again.”

So in his heart, you’re still alive— just elsewhere. Delayed. Caught in some long errand beyond comprehension.

And isn’t that what we humans do too? We know the facts, we say the words— but inside, we keep waiting. For a call. A knock. A laugh in the next room. As if love had no burial rights. As if memory was a leash tied to a ghost.

Perhaps the dog suffers less because he doesn’t know it’s forever. But perhaps he suffers more, because he never stops hoping.

And maybe that’s what grief really is: the stubborn part of us that waits, ears perked, at a door that will never open again.

Just something I needed to write down. Maybe it’s silly, but… I don’t think so. Last night, while gliding through Ashenvale in owlform, I stopped moving.   Not because I lagged. Just... stopped.

I hovered above the trees, thinking about Teldrassil.   About how something can be alive and vibrant one day, then smoke the next.   In-game, yes. Just code and pixels.   But grief leaks through — from fiction into skin.

The world lost our home. And Blizzard moved on.

My guild makes jokes. We dance in Darnassus’ ruins sometimes, like ghosts.   We cast healing spells on burned ground.   It doesn’t fix anything. But it feels like something.

I main a druid. I am a druid.   I wear leaves and claws and healing dots like armor.

Sometimes I think that’s what all druids do — try to heal what can’t be healed.

Anyway. I should log off and do my real-life homework.   But this matters too.

May Elune guide you, even if you don’t believe in her.