The dog ran up to him before the EXECUTION… And everyone froze.

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The Last Request

The dog ran up to him before the execution… and everyone froze.

Roman Kul had accepted his fate with a quiet, exhausted resignation. Twelve years had passed since the day his life ended, each morning a torturous replay of the past, each night spent staring at the cold, indifferent walls of cell B17—where time did not flow, but pressed down with relentless weight. He had been found guilty of a crime he never admitted to, his pleas growing fainter as the years dragged on. Judges stopped listening. Lawyers moved on. His voice became a distant echo, lost in the void.

He had aged early; gray streaked his hair, and insomnia hollowed his eyes. Roman no longer fought for his existence. Instead, he clung to the smallest fragments of peace he could find among concrete and surveillance. He learned to detach from everything—except one memory that never faded: Nika.

Nika was not just a dog. She was his family, his haven, his anchor during the darkest storms. He first found her as a trembling, abandoned puppy on the street, and from that moment, they were inseparable. She was there for him in moments of joy and in the unbearable pain that followed. Even as the world forgot him, Roman never stopped thinking of her. Was she alive? Did she remember him? Did she wait for him somewhere beyond these walls?

When the warden arrived with the official document, asking for Roman’s last request, he did not hesitate. He asked for neither delicacies nor spiritual counsel. Looking the warden in the eye with a blend of sorrow and serenity, he quietly replied, “I want to see my dog.”

The guards at first dismissed it as another strange, melancholy whim—a request impossible to fulfill. But there was a sincerity in his words that could not be faked. The emptiness inside him was so deep that even the most hardened prison staff felt it. They looked away, embarrassed by the reminder that humanity still flickered in this condemned man. No one could have guessed that this simple plea would set off a chain of events that would turn everything upside down.

Nika had ended up in the county animal shelter on the same day Roman was arrested. That morning, she’d bounced beside him on their daily walk, tail wagging, eyes bright. Then the police cars arrived, uniforms swarmed, and chaos erupted. Roman was handcuffed right next to her. When Nika tried to run to him, an officer yanked her by the collar and shoved her into a van. Her world shattered.

In the shelter, Nika stopped barking, refused food, and ignored other dogs. Day after day, she lay with her head down, refusing to acknowledge her new reality. Staff worried she wouldn’t survive long—her grief was profound, a loss of something essential. Her collar tag still read: “Nika, Property of Roman Kul.” Volunteers tried to contact his relatives, but no one answered. Roman’s story had been on the news, and some whispered that no one would want the dog of a convicted murderer.

Yet, Nika clung to her routines. Every evening, she would sit by the shelter door for hours, as if believing her person might come for her. Days turned to weeks, then years. Then, Elena arrived—a new volunteer with a rare gift for connecting with troubled animals. She noticed Nika’s calm, sorrowful presence and felt an instant bond. Elena began taking her on walks. At first, Nika showed little interest, but over time, something shifted. In the quiet of the rest room, Elena would sit for hours by her side, saying nothing, simply sharing the silence. One day, Nika rested her head on Elena’s knees. That was the start of something bright.

Elena took Nika home temporarily to save her from euthanasia. She grew deeply attached, but always saw the sadness in Nika’s eyes. The dog would sleep by the door, flinch at sirens, and sometimes whimper in her sleep. One night, Elena noticed a number on Nika’s collar. Out of curiosity, she searched the name online—and found old articles about a man accused of murder and sentenced to death. Roman Kul had been arrested at his home; his dog was seized by force. Elena’s throat tightened. Was Nika the dog who had waited all these years for a man the world had forgotten?

Weeks later, Elena received an unbelievable call. A correctional officer explained that inmate Roman Kul had requested to see his dog as his last wish. Using the microchip number, they had traced Nika to Elena. She was stunned, uncertain what to say, but when she looked at Nika’s deep, waiting eyes, her doubts vanished. The meeting was arranged. Nika didn’t know where she was going, but she sensed something important. In the car, she watched the road, alert and anxious.

At the prison, staff greeted them with curiosity—no one had ever seen a request like this. Elena held the leash tightly as guards explained the meeting would be brief and under strict supervision. No one was prepared for what happened next.

Nika saw Roman for the first time in years as he entered the prison yard, hands cuffed, flanked by two guards. His face was calm, as if he expected nothing, resigned that this was merely the last echo of their bond. He wore gray, stubble on his chin, his eyes deep and haunted. He had rehearsed what he might say, but now, he was numb.

The yard was empty except for Elena and Nika. The dog breathed heavily, tense. Then it happened—Nika lifted her head, sniffed the air, and froze. Her eyes met Roman’s, and without hesitation, she tore free from the leash, racing to him with a piercing cry. Guards moved to intervene, but the warden held up a hand—wait.

Roman dropped to his knees as Nika reached him. She hurled herself against him, whining, licking his face, neck, and shackled hands. He broke down, unable to hold back years of pain. He buried his face in her golden fur, clinging to her as if to a piece of himself that had died long ago. Roman wept with desperate relief. The guards watched in silence, some lowering their eyes, moved by a reunion more genuine than any they had witnessed.

Nika lay beside him, head on his knees, eyes closed in peace. For a moment, they were both home—the only place they had ever truly been happy. The scheduled ten-minute visit stretched to fifteen, then twenty. No one interrupted. It was an act of humanity beyond any rule.

Then, something extraordinary happened. Nika, suddenly alert, positioned herself between Roman and one of the guards—Mendel, the one closest to her. She growled, low at first, then louder, her body tense, eyes fixed on him. Mendel joked nervously, but Nika did not relax. Elena felt a chill. Nika had only ever reacted this way once before, to a man in the park who turned out to be cruel to animals. Now, she was warning them.

Later, the warden asked Elena if Nika had ever shown such behavior before. Elena, still shaken, recounted the story from the park. That night, unsettled, the warden requested the full case file on Roman—not just the summary, but every detail. He discovered that Mendel had been the first officer at the crime scene and the main witness, claiming to have seen Roman leaving the house where the murder occurred. But the timeline didn’t match. A neighbor’s emergency call was recorded nearly twenty minutes before Mendel’s claimed sighting. Traffic cameras showed Roman elsewhere at the critical moment.

Driven by a sense of duty, the warden contacted a young attorney, Thomas Guerrero, known for reviewing wrongful convictions. “Look at this with an open mind,” he asked. “Something doesn’t add up.”

Thomas and a small team dove into the documents. The more they investigated, the more inconsistencies they found. Mendel’s testimony was shaky. There were no fingerprints, no DNA—just one officer’s word and a weak chain of circumstantial evidence. The murder weapon was never found, and the coroner’s report had been altered. It became clear: someone had shaped the evidence to fit a convenient story.

Inside prison, Roman lived each day as if it were his last, unaware of the storm brewing outside. But since seeing Nika, something had changed. He was no longer simply waiting for death; he remembered what it meant to love and to be loved. Every night, he closed his eyes and imagined her warmth, her scent, the sound of her paws.

Outside, the story caught fire. A journalist, Valeria Mendoza, tracked down a former juror who confessed that several jurors had doubts but were pressured to convict due to media attention. This testimony was added to the appeal.

The court granted a new hearing, suspending Roman’s sentence and launching an investigation into Mendel’s conduct. For the first time in twelve years, Roman felt time move forward again.

Thomas’s team uncovered even more: partial fingerprints at the scene didn’t match Roman, and an anonymous call after the murder claimed the arrested man was innocent. Voice analysis linked it to Mendel. Public outrage mounted. The prosecution was forced to apologize for their negligence.

At a new trial, Roman spoke at last. “They took my life, but not my memory. Nika waited for me all these years because she knew I was innocent. If anyone doubts, look into her eyes—she never betrayed me.”

The judge overturned the conviction. Roman was exonerated. As he stepped out of the courthouse, Nika raced to him, leaping into his arms, tail wagging furiously. The world watched, moved to tears by a love that had survived everything.

Roman and Nika settled in a small village, far from the city’s noise. For the first time in years, he slept with the window open, the wind—not prison doors—waking him. Nika slept at his feet. Each evening, Roman wrote in a notebook, a book not of complaint but gratitude: “The Dog Who Saved Me.”

Years later, when Nika grew frail, Roman never left her side. When her heart finally stopped, he wept—not with grief, but with boundless love and thanks. Their story had become a symbol: that even when the world betrays you, love and loyalty can restore what was lost and make a person whole again.

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