George tried to move on, to fill the days with work, but nothing seemed to shake the sadness that had settled over him like a cloud. Every night, he found himself wandering out to the barn, hoping against hope that Thunder would be waiting for him. The seasons went by, but Thunder was still gone.
But George never stopped hoping. Deep down, in the quiet moments before sleep, he would still imagine Thunder trotting back across the field, his mane shining in the sunlight, as if nothing had ever happened. It was foolish, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about that horse—something that told him Thunder wasn’t gone forever.