When I was thirteen, Jimmy bounded into my life, a burst of dark energy illuminating my monotonous teenage years. The moment this curly-haired Teddy looked at me with his chocolate-drop eyes, the whole world seemed to soften. He licked away my tears after failing the college entrance exam, stood by me through early career frustrations, and covered my trousers with his fur in his excitement on the day I proposed to my wife. Over thirteen years, I transitioned from youth to middle age, while his jet-black curls gradually silvered, and his lively trot slowed to a careful amble.
On that unseasonably warm spring day, he diligently licked each of my fingers, pressing his cool nose into my palm for a long, still moment. When I awoke from a nap, his favorite spot on the window seat held only a few faded black curls. We searched the entire city, eventually finding his beloved jingle ball in a maple grove on the outskirts—his final message to me.
For three years, I revisited his photos in the lonely depths of the night. Then, at a local craft market, I watched an artist conjure life from wisps of wool with her felting needle. This discovery led me to Feltque Studio.
"Please keep that distinctive curl on the bridge of his nose," I urged the artisan, handing over a drive filled with Jimmy's images. "It was his favorite spot for me to scratch when he was happy." Two months later, when I lifted the lid of the custom cedarwood box, my breath caught. There he was—his dense black curls still holding their youthful bounce, his head tilted in that characteristically alert way, even the silvery strands that had appeared around his eyes with age were rendered with stunning clarity. As my trembling fingers traced those obsidian-like eyes, I finally wept, facing not a loss, but an eternal spring.
