…Through the window, he saw the man carefully place the bag on the table in a tiny, almost empty room. There was no dog there.

Only an old stove, a pot of water, and a thin, exhausted face reflected in the glass. The man slowly poured out the bones, sat down on a stool, and stared at them for a long time, as if gathering strength.

And in that moment, the butcher understood everything.

The bones were not “for the dog.” They were for himself. The man had no money for meat. Those few coins were the maximum he could afford — barely enough for bones.

He bought the bones to make broth and somehow have something to eat. Saturday after Saturday. For four long years.

The butcher stepped away from the window, feeling something tighten inside him. The ritual that had seemed strange turned out to be desperate. And the phrase repeated again and again was the only way to preserve dignity.

That night, he couldn’t sleep for a long time, repeatedly seeing the pot, the dim light, and the man who came every Saturday — just to survive.