🔹 Part 8 – Footprints Beside the Tide
Beacon didn’t bark much.
He tripped over his own feet. Got tangled in the porch swing chain. Stole Charlie’s socks from the laundry basket and buried them under the crabapple tree.
But each morning, just before sunrise, he sat by the front door.
Waiting.
Tail thumping gently against the floor, like he already knew — this was his job now.
Charlie let the leash hang by the doorknob for three days.
Then, on the fourth, he clipped it on.
“Let’s go see what the tide brought in.”
The beach hadn’t changed.
The driftwood bench still stood near the dunes, Scout’s name carved in honest, uneven letters. Kids had left flowers again — fresh daisies in a chipped mason jar.
Charlie and Beacon walked in silence at first.
The wind picked up. Beacon sneezed, then barked at a patch of foam and ran in the opposite direction.
Charlie chuckled for the first time in weeks.
“Don’t worry,” he muttered. “The ocean’s bark is worse than its bite.”
They reached the bench. Charlie sat.
Beacon sniffed the base, then circled twice and lay down beneath it, chin on paws — just like Scout used to do.
Charlie reached into his coat pocket.
Pulled out a piece of paper.
It was a sketch. Rough pencil lines. Worn edges. A simple drawing of Scout’s face, his ears a little uneven, his eyes bright.
Charlie had drawn it himself. Last night. First time he’d picked up a pencil in years.
He unfolded it. Weighed it down on the bench with a stone.
And just sat.
A pair of joggers passed. One paused.
“That your new pup?” she asked kindly.
Charlie nodded. “Name’s Beacon.”
She smiled. “Good name. Strong.”
Charlie looked at Beacon, who was busy trying to chew a piece of kelp like it was a treasure.
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “He’ll grow into it.”
That afternoon, they stopped by Molly’s clinic.
Beacon was due for his shots.
The lobby smelled of antiseptic and cedarwood. Molly looked up from her desk and smiled the moment she saw them.
“Well now,” she said. “That’s either a ghost or a beginning.”
Charlie stepped forward. Beacon tugged at the leash.
“He’s got Scout’s gait,” Molly said.
Charlie nodded. “But different eyes.”
Molly knelt. Beacon licked her fingers, then rolled over without hesitation.
Charlie smiled faintly. “No dignity at all.”
Molly glanced up. “Or maybe just trust.”
She stood. “He’s healthy. Strong. You’ll have a full decade with him, easy.”
Charlie looked down.
“I’ll take every minute.”
That evening, they sat by the fire.
Charlie placed Beacon’s new collar on the end table. Brass buckle. Tag engraved just that morning:
Beacon
Keep watch. Come home.
The pup yawned wide and climbed into Charlie’s lap.
Charlie closed his eyes and rested his palm on the small, warm chest.
For the first time since Scout passed, the silence in the house didn’t echo.
It hummed.
Soft. Living.
Like waves.