Part 4 — “Where the Tracks Lead”
Nathan didn’t read the last note right away.
It stayed in his coat pocket, folded once, soft at the corners from where Clyde’s hands had pressed it.
He wasn’t afraid of the words — not exactly.
He just didn’t want them to be the last ones.
The next morning, Benny didn’t get up.
Nathan found him on the rug by the door, breathing heavy, his legs trembling when he tried to rise. Nathan knelt down, whispered gently, and carried him outside wrapped in an old towel. It was cold, but Benny’s eyes blinked open the moment the light hit his face.
Clyde met them at the car.
“I’ll ride along,” he said.
Nathan glanced at him — no oxygen tank, no IV drip. Just a thick scarf and two pain patches beneath his sleeve.
“You sure?” Nathan asked.
Clyde patted the dog’s head. “I think he needs both of us today.”
The Rockview Veterinary Clinic was quieter than usual. Rebecca had set aside a room just for them — a warm corner with a blanket, a lamp, and an old rocking chair. No charts. No metal tables.
Dr. Malcolm came in after a few minutes, nodding solemnly.
“He’s tired,” the vet said softly. “The fluids aren’t helping anymore. His body’s starting to let go.”
Nathan knew it.
He’d seen it in the way Benny looked at him last night — calm, accepting. Dogs don’t fear endings the way people do.
“We can give you time,” Malcolm added, “or… we can help ease him out. Gently. No pain.”
Clyde nodded. “He deserves peace.”
Nathan whispered, “Yeah. He does.”
The vet left to prepare the injection. Rebecca brought tissues and closed the door behind her.
Nathan laid Benny down on the blanket. The dog gave one final sigh — the kind that feels like an exhale of a lifetime. Clyde knelt beside him, his hands shaking as they stroked the wiry fur one last time.
“You stayed longer than anyone,” Clyde whispered. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
Nathan rubbed Benny’s ears. “You waited for both of us to come back.”
Clyde chuckled through a sob. “Stubborn mutt.”
When the vet returned, they held Benny close. Whispered his name. Told him he was good, and brave, and loved.
And when Benny’s eyes closed for the final time, Clyde reached for Nathan’s hand without hesitation.
They buried Benny behind the station.
Nathan dug most of the hole. Clyde insisted on helping, despite the coughing and fatigue. They placed the red wagon beside the grave, propped up by rocks. Inside it, they left a biscuit, the worn leash, and the final note — still unread.
Nathan stood over the grave as dusk fell, holding that slip of paper. His fingers were numb.
“Should I read it now?” he asked.
Clyde shrugged. “If it’s time.”
Nathan unfolded it slowly.
The handwriting was faint, as if written during a tremor.
Benny — This might be the last one.
If he’s reading this, then you did what I never could — you brought him back.
I didn’t know how to be a good father. I worked too much. I waited too long to say the hard things.
But I never stopped loving him.
Tell him I was always waiting on that platform, just hoping he’d look back once before boarding.
Nathan closed his eyes.
And for the first time in years, he could see it.
That day at the station.
The yelling.
The way he turned away.
But now, he remembered —
His dad had stood there long after the train left. Waiting. Watching.
Maybe he always had.
Nathan folded the note and placed it in the wagon. Then he picked up a nearby stone and set it gently atop the grave.
“I’ll bring flowers next week,” he murmured.
“Don’t bother,” Clyde said. “He’d rather bacon.”
They laughed. And cried. And laughed again, like people who knew they were running out of time but finally learning how to spend it right.
The days that followed were quiet.
Nathan stayed in Rockview. He worked remotely, turned the dining room into a workspace, and left his suitcase unpacked. Clyde returned to the station twice a week, just to sit. Not to mop. Not to clean. Just to be.
Sometimes they talked.
Sometimes they didn’t.
But they always sat on the same bench, near Track 2.
The one Benny always pulled toward.
On a rainy Sunday in March, Clyde didn’t show up.
Nathan waited an hour before calling the neighbor. Then the hospital. Then the clinic.
He found Clyde in his recliner at home, wrapped in a blanket, asleep — deeply, peacefully. The TV was playing a static channel. His hand still rested on the old photo of Nathan’s mother. His chest didn’t rise again.
The funeral was small.
A few old coworkers from the station. Rebecca. Dr. Malcolm. Even the ticket clerk who had found Clyde during the stroke. Nathan gave the eulogy. He didn’t read a letter.
He didn’t need to.
The next morning, he returned to the station.
Just to sit.
And wait.
He found a folded scrap of paper under the bench. He thought it was trash at first. But the handwriting was unmistakable — tight, crooked, and entirely Clyde.
Son — If you’re reading this, then I’m gone. But you’re here. And that’s enough.
Forgive me for not chasing after you sooner.
Forgive yourself for walking away.
Some goodbyes take years. I’m just glad we found ours.
Take care of the station for me. And if another old mutt shows up, let him stay.
Nathan smiled. Tears ran freely down his cheeks.
He folded the note.
Placed it in the wagon.
And sat.
The platform was empty.
But not silent anymore.