Part 7 – The Edge of Goodbye
By Tuesday morning the house seemed quieter than it had ever been. Jo moved through the rooms as if afraid of disturbing something fragile in the air. Even the hum of the refrigerator felt too loud, too intrusive against the softer sound she strained to hear—Baxter’s breathing.
He lay on the rug by the window, eyes half-closed, chest rising in shallow effort. Jo sat near him, her knees tucked to her chest. She had not touched the Nikon all morning. It rested on the coffee table, strap curled like a snake, waiting.
Every click now felt like a question she wasn’t ready to answer: Is this the last one?
Rachel arrived mid-morning, letting herself in without knocking. She carried a paper bag of groceries she knew would likely go untouched. The sharp scent of oranges and coffee beans followed her into the room.
“How is he?” she asked quietly.
Jo’s gaze didn’t shift from the rug. “He’s… quieter today.”
Rachel crouched down and ran her hand gently over Baxter’s head. His ears twitched faintly at the touch, then settled again.
“He’s still finding you, though,” Rachel said, recalling Dr. Rowe’s words.
As if summoned, Baxter’s eyes opened for a moment and drifted toward Jo. His tail brushed once against the blanket beneath him.
Jo swallowed hard. “Yes. He still finds me.”
Rachel hesitated. “Aunt Jo, maybe you don’t need the last picture. Maybe you can let him go without that. You don’t have to turn this into… into an ending in a frame.”
Jo’s eyes hardened. “But if I don’t, there will be nothing left. Just silence.”
Rachel reached for her aunt’s hand, pressed it to her chest. “You’ll have him here. Where pictures can’t fade.”
Jo pulled her hand back slowly, staring at the Nikon on the table. She wanted to believe Rachel, but the weight of that camera was also the weight of her own promise.
That night, Jo couldn’t bring herself to sleep in her bed. She curled on the rug beside Baxter, her arm draped protectively across his body. His breaths rattled faintly, uneven as a cracked metronome.
At midnight she rose, poured herself a finger of whiskey from a bottle that had gathered dust for years, and let it burn down her throat. The heat steadied her hands.
When she returned to the living room, she lifted the Nikon and aimed it at him. Through the viewfinder she saw every frailty—his white muzzle, his paws curled, the shallow rhythm of his chest.
Her finger hovered on the shutter.
But she couldn’t press it. Not yet.
Instead she lowered the camera and whispered into the fur at his neck, “You’ll tell me when. I’ll listen.”
By morning, Baxter could no longer rise on his own. Jo slid her arms beneath him and lifted him gently, carrying him to the porch. The blanket wrapped around his body, his head pressed to her chest. He weighed almost nothing now, a whisper of the dog he had been.
She sat with him in the cold air. The yard was rimmed with frost, the sky blushing faintly pink. Birds flitted across the branches, their calls sharp and insistent.
Baxter sniffed once at the breeze, his eyes fluttering. Jo raised the Nikon with trembling hands.
Click.
The shutter echoed like a bell tolling.
She wound the film. His eyes opened again, hazy but still searching for her.
Click.
The frame seared into her chest—recognition, devotion, surrender.
She lowered the camera and pressed her forehead to his. “I don’t know how many frames are left, Bax. But I’ll take every one you give me.”
Rachel came by with soup and found them still on the porch. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck and crouched beside her aunt.
“You don’t have to keep pushing yourself like this,” she said gently. “Maybe it’s enough to just sit with him.”
Jo shook her head, voice low but firm. “He gave me his whole life. The least I can do is give him witness all the way through.”
Rachel brushed her sleeve across her eyes, not arguing further.
That evening, Jo finally called Dr. Rowe.
Her voice trembled as she held the receiver. “It’s almost time, isn’t it?”
There was a pause on the other end before his calm reply. “If he still looks for you, if his eyes still find yours, then he’s not ready yet. But when that stops—when he’s here in body but not in spirit—that’s when the time has come.”
Her grip on the phone tightened. “And you’ll come?”
“As soon as you need me.”
Jo hung up, staring at the Nikon resting on the counter.
In the early hours, she dreamed again. She stood at the river, Nikon in hand. Baxter bounded through the shallows, golden fur blazing, muscles strong, joy spilling from him like light. She tried to lift the camera, but in the dream her hands wouldn’t obey. She dropped it and simply watched, crying, as he leapt into the current and disappeared downstream.
She woke gasping, reaching out instinctively. His body was still beside her, warm but fragile, breath shallow.
She pressed her face into his fur. “Not yet, boy. Not yet.”
At dawn, she carried him outside once more, wrapped in the blanket. The horizon was painted in pale gold. Rachel stood with her, silent, her face streaked with tears.
Jo sat with Baxter in her lap, the Nikon heavy around her neck. He lifted his head faintly, eyes half-lidded but still finding hers.
She raised the camera.
Click.
Then again.
Click.
The roll was nearly finished—she could feel the tension in the advance lever, the thinness of film left.
She lowered the Nikon and whispered, “Tomorrow, Bax. Tomorrow will be the last picture.”
That night she went to the basement and developed the frames. Under the red glow, the images bloomed: Baxter in the frost, Baxter on the porch, Baxter’s eyes still locked to hers. Each frame was raw, stripped bare of beauty but drenched in truth.
She pinned them along the line, whispering, “You’ve carried me longer than I’ve carried you. These pictures aren’t saving you—they’re saving me.”
Her hands trembled as she shut off the light.
She returned upstairs, stretched beside him on the rug, and laid the Nikon on her chest. She stroked his ears as he sighed, breath faint but steady.
In the silence, she realized Rachel had been right—the pictures weren’t for him. They were for her, proof she had been brave enough to look grief in the eye and not turn away.
Tomorrow would bring the final frame.
She pressed her lips to his head and whispered, “No filter. No disguise. Just truth. Then I’ll let you go.”
Part 8 – The Last Frame Approaches
Dawn crept slow and gray across the windows. Jo hadn’t slept at all. She lay curled on the rug beside Baxter, her palm rising and falling faintly with the rhythm of his chest. Every time his breath hitched, her heart clenched like a fist. She whispered to him through the night, promising things she wasn’t sure she could keep.
When the first sliver of light broke across the horizon, she rose stiffly, joints aching, and brewed coffee she didn’t drink. She called Dr. Rowe as the percolator gurgled. Her voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable.
“I think it’s time,” she said.
“I’ll come this morning,” he replied softly. “You won’t have to face it alone.”
She hung up, staring at the Nikon on the counter. The final roll was almost spent. Only a frame or two remained.
Rachel arrived an hour later, her face pale, scarf wrapped tight against the cold. She hugged her aunt without words and crouched by Baxter. He opened his eyes briefly, tail brushing once against the rug.
“He still knows us,” Rachel whispered, trying to sound hopeful.
Jo nodded but couldn’t trust her voice.
Rachel glanced at the camera hanging from Jo’s neck. “Do you know if you’ll take it today? The last one?”
Jo tightened her grip on the strap. “If he tells me to. If the moment comes.”
Rachel didn’t press further.
The doorbell rang midmorning. Jo’s body stiffened, but she rose and opened the door. Dr. Rowe stepped inside, carrying his worn leather bag, his expression grave but kind.
“Morning, Jo. Morning, Rachel.”
He knelt by Baxter, stroking his ears before lifting his stethoscope. The room was silent except for the faint rasp of breath, the distant tick of the wall clock.
Finally, Dr. Rowe looked up. “He’s very weak. We can ease his passing whenever you’re ready. But there’s still recognition in his eyes. It’s your choice.”
Jo’s throat tightened. “One more hour,” she whispered. “I just need one more hour with him.”
Dr. Rowe nodded gently. “Take your time. I’ll wait outside if you’d like.”
Rachel touched his arm. “Thank you.”
Jo sat back on the rug, pulling Baxter’s head into her lap. She stroked his fur slowly, tears falling silently onto his coat.
“You gave me everything, boy,” she whispered. “More than I deserved. And I’ll give you truth in return. Just one more picture, and then I’ll let you go.”
She lifted the Nikon. Through the viewfinder, she saw his eyes open faintly, finding hers one last time. The light slanted across his face, soft and merciful.
Her finger pressed the shutter.
Click.
The sound seemed to echo through the room, final and irrevocable. She wound the film, but the advance lever locked. The roll was finished.
Her breath broke. She lowered the camera and clutched it to her chest, sobbing. “That was it. That was the last one.”
Rachel knelt beside her, arms wrapping around both aunt and dog. They wept together, their tears falling into Baxter’s fur.
When she could finally breathe again, Jo kissed Baxter’s head. “Okay, boy. I’m ready now. You’ve told me it’s time.”
She rose unsteadily and opened the door to the porch where Dr. Rowe waited. He stepped inside, his eyes kind but solemn.
Jo knelt once more, pressing her forehead to Baxter’s. “I’ll see you in the river. I’ll see you in the light. Thank you for waiting for me.”
Dr. Rowe knelt on the other side. Rachel held Jo’s hand, squeezing tight.
The room hushed, as if the house itself knew.
When it was done, Baxter lay still, his body slack, his face peaceful.
Jo didn’t move at first. She sat frozen, one hand resting on his side, as though she could will the rise of his chest. Only when Rachel’s sob broke the silence did Jo exhale, a sound that was half keening, half prayer.
Dr. Rowe quietly packed his bag. “Take as long as you need. I’ll help later with arrangements.” He left them alone, closing the door softly.
Jo stayed on the rug, both hands buried in Baxter’s fur. The Nikon hung heavy against her chest, the final roll still locked inside.
Rachel knelt beside her. “Do you want me to—”
“No.” Jo’s voice was hoarse but certain. “I’ll do it myself. I have to see it through.”
That evening, Jo descended to the basement darkroom with the film canister in her shaking hands. Rachel hovered in the doorway but didn’t enter. “I’ll wait upstairs,” she whispered.
Jo loaded the film onto the reel by memory, fingers trembling in the dark. The familiar rhythm of chemicals, rinses, timing filled the silence. She whispered each step aloud, like prayer beads sliding through her hands.
When the negatives finally unspooled, she held them up to the red light. Her breath caught. There, at the end of the strip, was the frame—the last one.
Baxter’s face, softened by light, eyes open just enough to meet hers. A look of trust, surrender, and love all at once.
Jo pressed the strip to her chest, sobbing. “You did it, boy. You gave me the truth.”
She made a print of the frame, watching as the image bloomed in the tray. Slowly, painfully, it appeared: Baxter resting on the rug, light falling across his face, eyes finding hers through the lens.
The moment she had feared was also the moment she most needed.
She pinned the print to the line, tears blurring her vision. It swayed gently in the air, glowing red like a relic.
Jo whispered into the empty room, “No filter. No disguise. Just truth. That’s all you ever were.”
When she emerged, Rachel was waiting with tea. Jo collapsed into her niece’s arms, exhausted.
“Did you see it?” Rachel asked softly.
“Yes.” Jo’s voice cracked. “And it was perfect.”
They sat in silence, sipping tea, the house heavy with absence but also strangely full.
Jo glanced at the Nikon on the counter. For the first time, she unclipped the strap from her neck and set it down gently. “It’s done now,” she whispered. “The last frame is taken.”
Rachel reached for her hand. “And the truth is safe.”
That night, Jo lay in bed for the first time in weeks. The house was unbearably quiet, but she held the print of Baxter’s final photograph against her chest. She closed her eyes, whispering, “You’re still here, boy. You’ll always be here.”
And in the silence, for the first time since the diagnosis, she felt not despair but gratitude.