PART 4 – “Ellie and the Carpenter’s Hands”
Summer in Bisbee settled in like a warm breath over everything—slow, dry, unhurried. The kind of heat that made old men nap on porches and kids ride their bikes barefoot until dusk.
But Tomás Rivera was back in his shop, the windows open, a fan rattling quietly in the corner. The smell of sawdust and varnish clung to the air, earthy and familiar. Ellie lay in her usual spot by the door, eyes half-closed, always half-aware.
She didn’t bark anymore. She didn’t need to.
That morning, Tomás worked on a cradle someone had dropped off from Tombstone—oak frame, water-damaged base, carved initials on the side: B.R. 1957. He figured it had rocked a dozen babies, maybe more. Now it creaked like an old man’s knees.
“Still got some music in you,” he said, running his hand across the edge.
Ellie lifted her head.
Then she stood.
Tail stiff. Ears forward. Eyes locked on the open door like something had shifted in the wind.
Tomás set the chisel down. “What is it, girl?”
She didn’t answer, of course. Just trotted outside—slow, purposeful—and paused at the gate. Looking back once to be sure he was coming.
He followed.
—
She led him down Main Street, past the shuttered mining museum and the bakery that only opened on Sundays now. Past the wall of hand-painted tiles that read “We Remember You.”
Locals nodded at Tomás as they passed. Nobody asked why the dog walked like she had a destination. Nobody questioned why a man his age was chasing something invisible.
They ended up in front of the community center.
That’s when he saw the sign.
Maya Alston Memorial Mural Project: “Every Child Deserves to Be Seen.”
And standing in front of the half-painted wall was a woman with tightly coiled hair streaked with gray and a clipboard clutched to her chest.
She turned as they approached.
And Tomás saw Maya in her eyes.
“Mrs. Alston,” he said gently.
She blinked at him, startled, then her gaze dropped to the dog. Her mouth opened. Then closed.
“Is that…?”
“Her name’s Ellie,” Tomás said. “I think she waited for you.”
—
They sat under the jacaranda tree behind the center, where the blossoms fell like soft purple snow. Ellie lay at Mrs. Alston’s feet, tail still, eyes alert.
“She just showed up one day?” Mrs. Alston asked, voice fragile but clear.
Tomás nodded. “Near my workshop. Wouldn’t let me leave her. Like she was waiting for something.”
Mrs. Alston looked away, her lips pressed tight. “Maya loved that dog. Named her Ellie after the elephant in her favorite book. They were inseparable.”
He let the silence grow between them.
“She kept that red wagon by her bed,” she continued. “Said it would take her to the moon one day. When they didn’t find it after the accident, I thought maybe someone took it.”
Tomás swallowed hard. “It wasn’t gone. Just waiting to be found.”
Mrs. Alston reached down. Ellie licked her fingers.
Then she cried.
Not loudly. Not with drama.
Just quietly. The kind of grief that leaks out when there’s finally room.
Tomás looked away.
Because some things deserve privacy.
—
Later, as the sun dipped low and the shadows stretched long, Mrs. Alston stood and looked at Ellie.
“Would you mind,” she asked, voice trembling, “if I came by tomorrow? Maybe bring one of Maya’s old toys? Something she used to chew on?”
“She’s yours,” Tomás said, surprised at how hard the words hit his throat.
But Ellie didn’t move.
She stayed by his side.
Mrs. Alston smiled sadly. “Maybe she belongs to both of us now.”
—
That night, Tomás sat on the porch with the wagon beside him.
Ellie rested against his boot.
He looked out at the hills and thought about how long the world could go on turning with something buried in its ribs.
But sometimes, the world gives back what it stole.
Piece by piece.
Like a dog returning to the place it last saw love.
PART 5 – “Ellie and the Carpenter’s Hands”
Tomás hadn’t stepped into the back bedroom in over a decade.
Not since Clara died.
The doorknob turned with a reluctant click. Inside, the air was still, thick with the scent of old linen and lemon polish. Dust danced in the late morning light, motes caught in memory. Everything was just as he left it—neatly folded quilts on the rocker, a jar of dried roses on the windowsill, and the faintest imprint of a cradle rug on the hardwood floor.
He stood in the doorway, fingers curled around the frame, as Ellie padded in ahead of him.
She didn’t hesitate. Just walked to the corner where the cradle had once rocked, sniffed the floor, and lay down—quiet, reverent.
Tomás’s throat tightened.
He hadn’t expected this room to call him back. Not now. But grief has a strange sense of timing, and dogs… well, dogs know where pain sleeps.
He walked in slowly, sat on the edge of the bed, and let his eyes travel the room.
It had been Clara’s sewing space before her body gave out. She used to hum while stitching—half lullaby, half prayer. There was a half-finished quilt still folded on the chair, the needle tucked into the fabric like someone planned to come back.
But no one ever had.
Until now.
—
He stayed there for over an hour.
Just him, the soft tick of the old wall clock, and Ellie’s breathing.
It wasn’t mourning anymore. Not exactly.
It was something softer. Like a memory being aired out for the first time in years.
When he finally rose, he took the quilt from the rocker. Carried it into the workshop like it was made of glass. Laid it across the old cradle he’d finished the week before. Ran his fingers along the edge.
Maybe someone else would come for it now. Someone expecting. Someone who didn’t know this quilt once belonged to a woman who hummed lullabies into her final breath.
And maybe that was alright.
—
The next day, Mrs. Alston came with a box.
“Maya’s things,” she said, hands trembling. “I kept some. Not much. But… maybe Ellie will remember.”
She opened it slowly—each item folded in tissue like it might break from sunlight.
A chewed rubber ball. A frayed leash, purple with silver stars. A small plush elephant missing one ear.
Ellie leaned forward. Sniffed the elephant.
Then licked it once and curled around it like a sleeping child.
Mrs. Alston wept.
Tomás put a hand on her shoulder. Didn’t say a word.
There wasn’t anything that needed saying.
—
That afternoon, Tomás did something he hadn’t done in years.
He wrote a letter.
To Maya.
He didn’t know what stirred it—maybe Ellie’s way of curling against the porch post that morning, or the quiet way Mrs. Alston pressed the leash into his hand, like surrendering a relic.
He wrote in long, slow strokes. His hand ached, but he wrote anyway.
Dear Maya,
I never got to say goodbye. You used to wave at me from the sidewalk, remember? Always with your hair in those bright ribbons.
I didn’t know then how much it mattered—that wave. That smile.
I do now.
Ellie waited for you. She waited for us all to notice.
I’m sorry it took so long.
He folded the letter and tucked it under the quilt in the cradle.
Let it rest there.
Like it finally had a home.
—
That night, Tomás stood at the edge of his porch, watching Ellie sleep in the wagon beside the plaque.
The desert wind whispered through the trees.
He thought of all the things a carpenter could build: tables, doors, hope.
But sometimes, it wasn’t the building that healed.
It was the waiting.
And the one who waited with you.
PART 6 – “Ellie and the Carpenter’s Hands”
The knock came just after sunrise.
Tomás was finishing his coffee, standing at the kitchen sink, watching the horizon slowly burn gold over the Mule Mountains. Ellie, already up, sat alert near the door—tail still, ears pricked.
He opened it to find a man in his late thirties. Thin, worn around the edges, like someone who hadn’t slept a full night in years. He held a canvas messenger bag over one shoulder and clutched a faded photo in one hand.
“Mr. Rivera?” the man asked.
Tomás nodded. “That’s me.”
The man offered a small, nervous smile. “My name’s Isaiah Thomas. I—uh—I don’t mean to bother you. I drove down from Tucson. I think I have something that belongs to her.”
He turned the photo around.
A snapshot of Maya Alston—ribbons in her hair, grinning wide—sitting on the red wagon. Ellie, still a pup, beside her.
Tomás stepped back, his voice suddenly caught behind his teeth. He motioned silently for the man to come in.
Ellie followed them into the workshop.
She sniffed the man’s shoes. Sat down. Watched.
Isaiah knelt slowly, eye to eye with her. “Hey, girl,” he whispered. “You remember me?”
She tilted her head. Then gently placed one paw on his knee.
And Isaiah broke.
Not loudly. Just a quiet hitch in his chest and a tremble in his hands.
“She was my cousin,” he said, sitting on the old shop stool. “Maya. We were only three years apart. I was staying with her family that summer. Visiting from Phoenix. I was supposed to walk her home that day.”
Tomás stayed quiet. Just listened. Ellie did too.
“But I’d stayed behind to flirt with some girl on the float,” Isaiah said, wiping his face. “Told Maya I’d catch up. Told her she was fine on her own.”
He shook his head. “She wasn’t.”
Silence settled in the sawdust.
—
Isaiah pulled a small cloth bundle from his bag.
“I found this a few months ago. Cleaning out a storage unit my mom had been renting since she passed. Inside was this… necklace. A tiny, silver locket. Maya’s. I recognized it right away.”
He unwrapped it carefully. Inside, a faded photo—Maya on one side, and on the other, Ellie as a puppy, tucked in a pink blanket.
“She used to wear this every day,” he said. “It must’ve been taken off her after the accident. Somehow ended up packed away with my mom’s things. I didn’t even know it was missing.”
He set it gently on Tomás’s workbench. “I wanted to bring it back. I didn’t know where else to go, but I read about the mural project and your name came up.”
Tomás nodded slowly. Picked up the locket. It was cool and fragile, like something that had waited too long to be touched.
“You came to the right place,” he said.
—
That afternoon, they all returned to the mural.
Mrs. Alston was already there, painting the final brushstrokes—stars across a deep blue sky, the kind Maya used to draw on her notebooks.
When she saw Isaiah, she froze.
Then slowly walked over, one hand raised to her lips.
“I’m sorry,” he said before she could speak. “I should’ve walked her home. I should’ve—”
Mrs. Alston stopped him with a touch.
“You were a child too,” she said softly. “We all carry guilt for things we couldn’t control.”
Ellie pressed her nose into Isaiah’s palm. Forgiveness given, without conditions.
Mrs. Alston looked down at the locket Tomás held.
“She used to hold it when she was scared,” she said. “Said it kept her brave.”
Tomás offered it to her.
But she shook her head. “Let it stay with Ellie. She kept the promise we couldn’t.”
So Tomás tied the locket to Ellie’s collar with a piece of soft leather cord. It hung just beneath her chin, glinting in the sunlight.
A weight. A memory.
A home.
—
Later, Isaiah sat beside Tomás on the porch.
“I’ve spent so long trying not to remember,” he said. “But maybe remembering is the only way through.”
Tomás nodded. “You can’t carve wood without seeing the grain. Can’t heal without facing the scars.”
Ellie lay at their feet, the wagon beside her.
The stars above them were just beginning to wake.