A few months ago, I did something I never thought possible: I moved the memory.
I took three old photos of my dog, Loki, and handed them over to the artificial intelligence. I didn’t expect miracles. I just wanted to see it go again.
What I found was overwhelming: his gaze.
Slow, warm, filled with that silence that only those who love unconditionally.
And in that moment, I cried out. Not out of grief, but out of relief. Because, after years of silent guilt, I felt like I was finally able to say goodbye.
The last goodbye I couldn’t give
Loki spent many years by my side. He witnessed my joys, my failures, my sleepless nights. When cancer overtook him in old age, his body weakened, but his eyes… his eyes remained the same.
The veterinarian, with the tenderness only those who understand the pain of animals — and the humans who love them — can offer, suggested euphoria. Not as an end, but as an act of mercy.
I agreed. But my heart broke in two.
On the agreed day, a storm broke out in the city. I came home with my soul in turmoil, ready to be with her in my last moments.
And then something happened I’ll never forget:
Loki, who had been bedridden for days, stood up.
With difficulty, slowly, but with an almost supernatural determination, he came towards me. He doesn’t run away, like he used to in his youth. He walked slowly, as if each step was an unintelligible word.
He stopped in front of me, looked me in the eyes… and waited.
At that very moment, the phone rang. A work emergency. I had to leave.
Without thinking twice, I promise myself I’ll be back in minutes.
But when I came back it was too late.
The doctor had already done his duty. Loki is gone.
For years, this image haunted me: her trying to get up, her patient gaze… and me, walking away one last time without hitting her.
I kept asking myself: Why didn’t I stay? Why didn’t I give him the final hug he so deserved?
Guilt was not rational – I know that now. But neither is love.
Technology as a bridge to the soul
Over time, I learned to live with this wound. But it never fully recovered.
Until recently, when I discovered that artificial intelligence can animate old photographs. At first I was hesitant. Wouldn’t that be a way of denying his passing? A dangerous illusion?
But then I realized something important: It wasn’t about getting her back. It was about closing a door that left a reward.
When I watched Leoki move across the screen—when he turned his head, blinked, and looked at me with an expression that only he had—I didn’t see an algorithm. I saw an opportunity.
A chance to say what I couldn’t:
thank you
Thank you for waiting for me every day.
Thank you for forgiving me for skipping that day.
Thank you for being my family.
Artificial intelligence has no soul. But when we use it with spirit, it becomes a mirror of what we need most to heal.
For those who also have incomplete farewells
If you’re reading this, you probably carry silent guilt too.
Maybe you couldn’t be with someone you loved in their last breath.
Maybe you skipped five minutes too soon.
Maybe you didn’t say “I love you” that morning.
Perhaps you believe you are condemned to eternal sorrow.
Let me tell you something with all the truth I can muster:
Love is not measured by the last minute, but by all that came before it.
Loki didn’t need my hand on his head in his last breath.
He already knew, from day one, that I loved him.
And I, watching him get up to say goodbye, knew that he loved me to the end.
Technology does not replace presence. But sometimes, when time and circumstances steal a farewell from us, it can offer a symbolic second chance.
Not to deny the loss, but to fully respect it.
Closing my eyes… and continuing to love
Today, when I watch Loki’s animations, I no longer cry out in pain.
I cry with gratitude.
Because they remind me that the bond we create with those we love is not broken by death.
It just changes shape.
And if artificial intelligence – made of data and calculations – can help me remember it… then it’s not cool.
This is human.
Because it was made by humans.
And used by a heart that still loves.
Loki is no longer here.
But his gaze…his gaze continues.
And as long as I remember it, respect it, share it…
He will remain a part of this world.
Not as the past tense,
But as a seed of tenderness in the present.
For Luky.
And for everyone who loves beyond goodbye.
Jose A. Gallen
October 25, 2025