In the cold mists of the Central European mountains, where forests stretch like green oceans and villages seem suspended between earth and sky, lived a German Shepherd named Loki. His master, an old man with a heart as sturdy as ancient oaks, had raised him from a pup. They shared everything: the silences of dawn, the cries of birds of prey over the valleys, and that wordless bond born only between a man and his dog.
 
One autumn morning, as the leaves danced like flames in the wind, the old man vanished. No trace of him was ever found, perhaps swept away by the whims of a flooding river or the secrets of the deep forests. Loki refused to accept his absence. He sniffed every path, every stone, every tree, as if he could sense, in the rough bark or the scent of damp earth, the passage of his master. The seasons passed, indifferent to his quest. Winter snows froze his paws, spring rains matted his fur to his bones, and summer suns scorched his black-and-tan coat. But Loki did not stop.
 
He wandered through the vast expanses, from the golden plains of Hungary to the rugged peaks of the Carpathians, from the cobbled streets of Prague to the banks of the Danube, where the water’s reflections seemed to whisper promises. Moved by his determination, farmers sometimes offered him a piece of bread or shelter for the night. Some claimed to have seen him, years later, near an old wooden bridge, his muzzle raised to the horizon, as if still waiting for a familiar whistle.
 
The years etched lines around his eyes, and his gait grew slower, but his gaze remained as sharp as the first day. He had turned his life into an offering of hope, each step a prayer, each pant a silent call. Sometimes, at night, when the wind blew through the mountains, one could swear they heard a distant echo, like a name whispered through the ages.
 
One evening, as the sky blazed with purple and gold, Loki lay down at the foot of an old oak tree, where, decades earlier, his master had thrown his first ball. He closed his eyes, and in the breath of the wind, he thought he recognized a voice, a hand caressing his forehead. Perhaps it was only memory cradling him, or perhaps it was the answer to a loyalty that had transcended time.
 
When he was found the next day, his body lay at peace, but his muzzle still pointed east, where, legend says, wandering souls finally find each other.