Part 4 – “The Warmth We Share”
Harold woke on the floor.
Not to the chime of the bell, not to the sun creeping over the window trim — but to the sound of Jasper breathing. Shallow, but steady. A soft rhythm, like wind threading through pine needles.
His back ached. His shoulder was stiff from the wooden floorboards. But he didn’t move right away. He stayed close, one hand resting on Jasper’s side, the way you do when you’re afraid something might disappear if you let go.
The shop was cold.
Sometime in the night, the heater had clicked off. The old one by the vent ran on borrowed time, like most things in Harold’s life.
He sat up slowly, wincing as his leg gave a stubborn jolt — the one with the shrapnel scars and the years of rain-sensing pain. As he stood, a dull throb passed behind his eyes. Not pain, exactly. More like pressure.
He’d forgotten to eat again.
It wasn’t new. His sense of hunger came late, if at all. He’d trained himself to ignore the tremors, the sweat that prickled behind his ears. But the dizziness? That always found him.
He grabbed the cookie tin from behind the counter. Fumbled open the lid. Two glucose tablets remained, rattling like bones in a cup.
He took one.
Waited.
Breathed.
Jasper didn’t lift his head, but his eyes tracked Harold across the room. The old dog’s tail didn’t move. But there was recognition, even warmth.
“Still with me,” Harold whispered, then added, “Me too.”
He went to the back room — the one barely wide enough for a cot, a sink, and a fold-out table where he did most of his carving. He made toast. Dry. Half a banana. Then poured himself black coffee and dropped two sugar cubes in, though he knew better.
He’d see Doc Emery on Friday.
Not because he wanted to.
Because Jasper had stopped eating completely.
That morning, only one customer came in before noon.
Gina Brooks, from the church choir. She carried a paper bag full of old buttons and ribbon scraps — things for Harold to maybe “turn into angels,” as she put it.
She didn’t ask why Jasper hadn’t gotten up.
She just sat on the floor beside him. Ran her hand gently down his spine. Whispered something Harold didn’t hear.
Then she left.
A few minutes later, Harold lit the little candle by the register. It wasn’t for scent. It was for comfort.
The label read:
Cedar Smoke. Memory Safe.
The flame danced.
Jasper shifted slightly — enough to rest his chin on his paws.
Harold looked down at the towel beneath him. Frayed corners, worn thin by time and pawprints.
That towel had once been his mother’s. She’d embroidered a single letter — H — in one corner, in blue thread. When she passed, he found it in the laundry room, half-folded, smelling like lavender.
Now it smelled like Jasper.
He couldn’t wash it again. Not now.
Around three, Harold tried to carve.
His hands trembled too much.
Not the kind of shake from age — he was used to that. This was the kind that crept in when he’d gone too long without real food, when the blood sugar dipped low and his body tried to pretend everything was fine.
He sat down. Forced himself to drink orange juice from the mini-fridge. Waited again.
It passed — slow, but clean.
The way a memory does when it no longer stings but still leaves something behind.
Jasper opened his eyes.
Just a flicker.
Harold moved beside him. Lowered himself to the floor again. Reached for the dog’s paw and held it between both hands. It was cold at the tips.
“You remember the bridge?” he asked softly.
Jasper didn’t move, but Harold continued anyway.
“Desert storm, 1991. Concrete blown out in three spots. They sent me to fix it with a crew of four and a bag of parts not worth spit. I thought we’d lose it. Thought I’d lose it.”
He swallowed hard.
“But we didn’t. We held.”
He looked down at Jasper.
“You held me too.”
The dog blinked once. A slow, knowing blink.
“And if you want to go,” Harold added, “I’ll still be here.”
Silence.
Then, the smallest sound — not a whine, not a bark. Just a breath that caught for half a second. Like a sigh too full of meaning.
Harold rested his forehead against the dog’s.
The candle on the counter flickered low.
Outside, the wind changed direction.
That evening, Pastor Nolan returned. Not for a card. Not for a sermon.
He brought soup. Chicken and barley. Left it on the counter without asking.
“I’ll come by in the morning,” he said. “Whether you’re open or not.”
Harold nodded.
After the door closed, he ladled a small portion into a bowl and set it by Jasper. Just in case.
The dog didn’t touch it.
But his nose moved.
It was enough.
Harold ate what was left. Every bite slow, each swallow measured.
The warmth stayed in his chest for longer than he expected.
And when he blew out the candle and locked the shop for the night, he turned one last time before heading to the back room.
Jasper hadn’t moved.
But his eyes were still open.
And they followed Harold’s footsteps all the way to the door.