Once upon a time, there was a city dog named Argo.
He lived on the third floor of a building where the only thing that ever moved was the neighbor’s fan.
His days went by peacefully: a nap on the rug, a biscuit, a walk down the street to sniff the daily news.
Until one morning, his human arrived with some big news.
“Argo, we’re going on vacation!”
“Great!” thought Argo. “We’re going to the mountains — grass, squirrels, tall trees, and the smell of moss.”
But no. After hours in the car, the spare tire started to smell like salt.
And when they finally stopped, there was a white house with a big window, so big it looked like a painting.
Argo leaned forward… and behind the window was the sea.
A living sea, breathing softly and going shhh… splash! like a sleeping giant.
The window seemed happy.
Every time Argo put his nose close, it puffed up a little, as if to make more room for him.
“What a wonderful smell, my window!” said Argo.
And if the window could have spoken, it would have replied, “Oh, I know… I’ve been watching the sea for years, and I’m still not tired of it.”
One night, under the full moon, the sea roared louder than usual.
Argo woke up and saw the window covered in droplets.
“Are you crying?” he asked.
“No,” it seemed to say, “the sea just winked at me from a bit too close.”
From that day on, every morning, Argo sat beside it in silence.
They watched waves, seagulls, and distant boats together.
And when he returned to the city, on the gray sidewalk, he closed his eyes and could still smell that salty breeze.
Because some windows — and some memories — keep looking at the sea, even when they can’t see it anymore.
