Part 5 — “Proof of Life”
The dog still slept in the basil patch.
Every morning, Mabel Coates brought him warm eggs in a chipped blue bowl and brushed the burrs from behind his ears with an old baby comb she found in a drawer. Roo — no longer just “Saturday,” but Roo, like the root of something deeper — had grown heavier, sleepier, and less afraid.
“He’s settling,” Mabel said one morning to Layla, who was scanning a photo album under the shade of the trellis. “Or maybe just remembering he belongs.”
Layla smiled faintly but didn’t look up. She was on a mission. Each page she turned crackled with age — polaroids and photocopies, handwritten names and dates in red ink.
“Look,” she said, tapping the corner of a page.
The photo was grainy and faded. Four kids crouched over a raised bed, laughing. Behind them: the mural wall, only half-painted. And in the corner, near a row of tomato stakes, stood a younger Mabel, wearing a straw hat and grinning wide.
“You think this’ll be enough?” Layla asked.
Mabel nodded slowly. “It’s a start.”
The next two weeks were a blur of action — dusty, aching, hopeful action.
Teens canvassed the block, knocking on doors, asking for old photos, stories, anything with a date. A retired librarian named Ms. Patrice found a 1998 grant receipt for seed funding in her garage. An old pastor dropped off VHS tapes of Easter egg hunts held in the garden — Jayson appeared briefly in one, waving a paintbrush.
Someone created a Dropbox folder called “Proof of Life.” It filled faster than anyone expected.
Meanwhile, the garden itself began to look alive again.
Layla painted a new sign for the gate:
“Welcome Back.”
Marcus built a bench from salvaged pallets. One of the grandmothers brought a prayer flag from her church, and Mabel planted sweet peas along the east wall where the sun hit hardest.
And Roo stayed.
Every day.
He no longer flinched at loud sounds. He followed Layla around like a shadow, napping beside her backpack or curling at her feet while she painted.
He even let the children pet him — gentle, hesitant strokes on his shoulders.
“He’s not a stray anymore,” Mabel said one afternoon, stroking his bony ribs. “He’s a sentinel.”
Layla grinned. “A guardian.”
On Friday, Sierra Lockwood returned with a clipboard and a camera crew from the Parks and Urban Greenspaces office.
She walked the entire lot in her boots, stepping carefully around the new bean trellis and the stone path someone had laid from old bricks. She asked questions. Took notes. Touched the leaves of every plant.
Roo followed her at a distance.
When she reached the trellis with Jayson’s canvas mural, she stopped.
“He painted this?”
Layla stepped forward. “It was the last thing he made before we lost our place.”
Sierra blinked. “He’s the one who wrote the letter?”
Mabel nodded. “And the one who dreamed of turning this into something more.”
Sierra was quiet for a moment.
Then she said softly, “I’ve reviewed everything. The photos. The testimonials. The history. You’ve met the threshold for community use.”
Gasps rippled through the small group gathered behind the beds.
“But,” she continued, “we still need a city council vote to finalize protective designation. That happens next week.”
Mabel’s heart sank.
“Until then, the stay holds. But you’ll need to show up. Speak. Make the case.”
Layla stepped forward, voice clear. “We will.”
“And bring Roo,” Sierra added with a smile. “He’s kind of the mascot now.”
That night, Mabel couldn’t sleep.
She sat in her kitchen with the paintbrush Jayson had left behind. It rested beside her tea cup like a relic, bristles curled from time and use.
The garden could still be lost. The vote could go south. The developers could find a loophole.
But somehow, this brush, this dog, and that patch of soil had breathed something back into her.
Not just memory. Meaning.
Outside, the wind shifted. She thought she heard Roo bark once — short and low, like a warning or a prayer.
Mabel reached for her notebook.
She began to write a speech.
One that started not with politics or policy… but with a dog.
A blind-eyed stray who never forgot where love had lived.