There are presences that cannot be confined to a role, a photograph, or even an isolated memory. Boris was one of those presences—whole, constant, and impossible to reduce.

He passed away on the 24th of April, on his 7th birthday. Seven years rounded off with an almost cruel precision, as if he knew exactly when it was time to go.

Boris was part of Microgreens in his own right. He was not an accessory, nor a mere spectator. He saw this project grow, stumble, and pick itself back up. He was there on the good days, of course, but it was on the difficult days that he became indispensable. When everything felt heavier, more uncertain, and more fragile, there was always a disarming lightness about him, a simple way of reminding us that there was still ground beneath our feet.

He was a friend in the truest sense of the word. Present without demanding, attentive without intruding. He had a very unique way of being—deeply affectionate, almost excessive with his kisses, as though affection was urgent and could not be postponed. Looking back now, perhaps it was.

He also possessed a rare beauty. Not just the kind that is seen, although he was honestly one of the most beautiful dogs in the world, but the kind that is revealed in a gesture, in the way he looked, in the manner he occupied space without ever making it feel heavy.

There is a strange silence now. It is not complete absence, because there are things that do not just disappear, but rather a kind of interval, a void that is still learning how to exist.

What remains is everything he was—the companionship, the sweetness, the firm presence in uncertain moments. The invisible mark remains. And, above all, the certainty that there was something genuine there, and that we were incredibly, uniquely lucky to have experienced it.