Sometimes I think she’s fine. Sometimes I think her body just found a small, harmless way to look like it remembers every loss I’ve ever told her about.

I dabbed it with a warm, soft cloth each morning. She leaned into the pressure—just for a second—then flicked her tail and walked away, offended by my concern.

The vet called it epiphora . Too fancy. Miso just looked perpetually moved, as if she’d finished a sad book hours ago and couldn’t quite shake the final page. A brownish trickle stained her white bib fur, then dried into a little comma under her eye.

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