Part 9 — The Place He Chose
Walter woke just before sunrise.
Not to an alarm, not to sound—just a stillness so complete it called his name.
He sat up slowly.
The fire had long since gone out. The room was gray with pre-dawn hush.
He listened, like he always did, for the soft rustle of paws shifting on fabric, or the gentle huff of breath near the hearth.
But the space beside the fireplace was empty.
“Barnie?” he called softly.
No answer.
Just the creak of the cabin settling, and wind brushing the windowpanes like a memory returning.
Walter stood, knees aching as always, and walked through the house barefoot.
He passed the kitchen.
The front room.
Still no sign.
Then he opened the porch door.
There, at the top of the ramp Walter had laid down weeks ago, lay Barnie.
He was curled in a soft crescent, squirrel and monkey tucked between his legs like children fallen asleep on a long car ride.
His head rested on the very edge of the mat, where morning light was just beginning to spill across the floorboards.
He had gone out on his own—quietly, peacefully—to watch the sun come back one last time.
Walter knelt beside him.
Barnie’s body was still warm.
His chest no longer rose, but his expression was unchanged.
There was no fear in it. No pain.
Only rest.
Only peace.
Walter placed a hand on his back, the way he had every morning since they’d met.
“Well done,” he whispered.
“You waited. And you were right.”
He sat there a long time.
Birds began to sing.
The sky turned gold.
The trees swayed gently, and the world—somehow—kept going.
Walter didn’t cry at first.
He just breathed, slow and steady, like he was matching a rhythm no longer there.
And then, when the light caught the fur on Barnie’s shoulder, when he saw just how soft the old toy squirrel had become from being held so many nights,
he let go.
That afternoon, Walter built something.
Behind the house, where the trees opened into the meadow, he dug a small plot beneath the tallest pine.
The ground was soft with spring thaw.
He worked slowly, resting often, but never stopping.
He laid Barnie down wrapped in the plaid blanket.
Beside him: the monkey, and the squirrel.
He placed his notebook in the earth, too—open to the last page.
Then he sat back on his heels and looked toward the porch.
He could almost see Barnie there.
Not young.
Not limping.
Just whole again.
Tail thumping softly.
Waiting.
Not for a home.
Not for a second chance.
Just for the man who finally came.