Part 10 – “The One Who Came After”
Two weeks after Jasper passed, the shop was quieter — but never empty.
The cards had stopped arriving daily, but people still came. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes to drop off a drawing, a flower, or a photo. Sometimes they’d whisper Jasper’s name like a prayer.
Harold spoke less now.
Not because he was sad.
Because he had begun listening in a different way.
He kept Jasper’s carving on the counter, just beside the register. Each morning, he brushed the dust from its fur. Each night, he wrapped it in a soft cloth before locking up.
The window under the cedar tree had become something of a shrine.
No one dared touch it.
But they added to it.
Pressed handprints. Little notes on scrap paper. A leash. A red bandana someone tied to the lower corner. In the sunlight, it glowed like a heartbeat.
One gray morning in mid-November, Harold was carving a snowflake ornament when he heard the bell above the door jingle.
He looked up, expecting Ellie or Pastor Nolan or one of the Henderson twins.
But it wasn’t any of them.
It was a child.
Small, maybe eight. Freckles. Mismatched gloves. And standing beside her —
A dog.
Young.
Scruffy.
Clearly part shepherd, part something else.
A tangle of fur and ribs and oversized paws. Nervous eyes.
Harold stood slowly.
The girl looked up at him and said, simply, “He followed me here.”
She held out a folded note.
Harold took it.
The handwriting was clumsy, but legible:
*Saw this dog behind the mill. Tried to chase him off, but he wouldn’t leave. He kept looking east. Thought he was going somewhere important.
I followed.
He stopped here. Sat by the bench. Wouldn’t budge.
Said maybe he was waiting for someone.*
Harold looked down at the dog.
The creature tilted its head.
Not like Jasper. Not exactly.
But there was something in the eyes — not recognition, but readiness.
The girl looked back at the dog, then at Harold.
“He hasn’t eaten.”
Harold nodded. “I’ve got some stew.”
He stepped around the counter, stiffly, and knelt beside the dog.
The pup flinched — then leaned forward, nose twitching.
“You’re a long way from home,” Harold said softly. “Or maybe you just found it.”
The girl brightened.
“Can I come visit him?”
Harold smiled.
“You already have.”
That afternoon, the dog stayed.
The girl left — but promised to return with a name.
Harold didn’t name the pup.
Not yet.
He gave him a towel by the heater vent.
Left a biscuit by the bowl.
Didn’t ask anything more than that he stay.
The dog curled up without a sound.
And Harold, for the first time in weeks, put on the radio.
Patsy Cline again.
“I Fall to Pieces.”
But this time, Harold didn’t.
He stood behind the counter, hands steady, carving a new figure.
Not a replica of Jasper.
Something new.
Same posture.
New shape.
A different tail. Ears a little higher. Expression more curious than wise.
He placed the finished figure beside the old one.
Not to replace.
But to add.
To remind himself that grief is not a door that shuts.
It’s a hallway. A bridge. A path with echoes.
And if you listen close, you’ll hear the next set of footsteps.
Still distant.
But coming.