Part 4 – When the Rain Comes
Rain started falling just after midnight.
Not the kind that lashes windows or pounds roofs — just a quiet, steady whisper.
The kind you don’t notice until it’s soaked through your shoulders.
Eli sat by the window in the old house on Ashbury Street, lights off, watching the droplets race each other down the glass.
He hadn’t slept.
Didn’t want to.
His father was still at County General, stable but weak.
They hadn’t said goodbye. But they hadn’t said much else either.
And now Eli was alone again — in the house where he’d once fallen asleep to the sound of Scout’s paws pacing the floor.
The house groaned in the night like an old man shifting in his chair.
Radiator clicking. Wind slipping under the doorframe. A drip from somewhere in the kitchen.
He didn’t mind the silence anymore.
It felt honest.
In the morning, he boiled coffee in the dented old kettle and sat at the table with the stack of letters his father never sent.
Most were half-written. Some just lines.
“Eli, I saw your name in the paper — the dean’s list…”
“Tried to sign up for one of those life policies again. They said the meds disqualify me…”
“Don’t worry about money. I cashed out the last savings bond…”
So much he’d never heard.
So much his father never got to say — not out loud, anyway.
The doorbell rang around 9 a.m.
Eli answered it in a sweatshirt and flannel pants.
Standing on the porch was a man in his sixties, silver beard, denim jacket, postal cap.
“Didn’t mean to intrude,” the man said. “Name’s Rick. I took over Route 6 after your dad.”
Eli blinked. “I didn’t know anyone had.”
Rick smiled kindly. “Nobody can replace Frank. I’m just walking his boots.”
He handed Eli a small brown envelope. No return address. Postmarked Mapleton Station.
Inside was a sympathy card.
“To the family of Franklin Thomas — He delivered our mail for thirty years.
But more than that, he delivered kindness.”
Eli felt the words settle deep.
Rick hesitated. “Your dad kept the old place running longer than anyone expected. I heard about the furnace. Town was trying to get a program going for seniors, something about heating subsidies and deferred maintenance, but… it never got off the ground.”
Eli nodded slowly.
He’d seen the rust on the baseboards. The patch job on the roof.
Felt the cold air snake up from the basement.
“He didn’t talk much,” Rick said. “But he was the first guy to shovel his neighbor’s steps. Left dog treats in people’s mailboxes.”
A pause. “Even left one in mine after I replaced him. Said, ‘For your Scout — whoever he might be.’”
Eli smiled. A real one.
Rick tipped his cap. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
Then he was gone.
Later, Eli sat in his dad’s recliner with Scout’s collar on the armrest.
He opened his laptop for the first time since returning home.
Logged into his student loan dashboard.
The numbers blinked coldly back at him.
Tuition. Housing. Interest.
It felt like another language.
He thought about what his dad said — about cashing out savings bonds. About not qualifying for life insurance. About the furnace that barely coughed heat.
And he thought: How many things did he sacrifice just to keep me moving forward?
That afternoon, he drove his dad’s old pickup to the hospital.
It rattled at 40 miles an hour. Brakes soft. The glove box full of dog hair and spare gloves.
He stopped at Mapleton Hardware on the way.
Picked up a bag of salt for the front steps.
And a small can of paint — the same faded blue-gray as the old USPS uniform.
At the hospital, Franklin was propped up watching a muted football game.
“You drove?” he asked.
Eli shrugged. “Didn’t want the bus again.”
His father smirked.
“I picked up some salt for the steps,” Eli added. “And that bedroom window—still leaking.”
Franklin looked away, blinking faster than usual.
Eli sat down. “We’ll patch it. One thing at a time.”
A silence stretched between them.
Then his father said, “You’re staying awhile?”
Eli nodded. “Until it feels less wrong to leave.”
Frank chuckled. “You sound like your mother.”
They sat in the hospital room while rain slid down the outside glass.
On the way out, Eli stopped by the billing office.
“Just checking,” he told the woman behind the desk. “Wanted to see what’s… coming next.”
The woman tapped keys. “Medicare covers a portion. But he’s got some gaps — no supplemental coverage. Right now we’re holding on a few charges until discharge. Meds. Monitoring. He’s opted out of long-term options.”
Eli frowned. “What does that mean?”
She gave a kind smile. “It means he didn’t want to be a burden.”
Eli left the hospital and stood in the parking lot for a long while.
Rain slicked the pavement. The wind bit at his neck.
In his pocket, the collar jingled faintly.
He looked up at the gray sky and whispered, “Not a burden.”
Then drove home.
That evening, he pulled out a fresh envelope.
Wrote his own name on the front.
And slipped a note inside:
You don’t get to go back.
But you get to go with them, a little longer.
And when the time comes to let go—
do it with both hands open.
He placed the letter in the mailbox.
Flag up.
Just in case someone was still walking the route.