Part 6: The Return Ticket
The sun rose late in the Yukon.
It spilled over the trees in slow-motion, casting long amber fingers across the snow. Inside the cabin, it warmed the wood panels and caught the edges of the photo still resting on the table—Robert and Arthur, with that dog between them, frozen in time.
Walter was packing.
Each motion was slow, deliberate. The kind of packing you do when you’re not sure if you’re coming back—not just to a place, but to who you were before it.
The box was wrapped again in the oilcloth, the letters secured in his coat. The harmonica, now a silent weight in his pocket, went last.
Ruby folded their scarves carefully. She glanced at Walter every few minutes but didn’t interrupt the silence. They had learned, over decades, that some silences spoke louder than words.
Arthur stood by the window.
“You’ll have to wait another day,” he said without turning around. “Pilot radioed in. Fog’s too thick in Fairbanks. Can’t fly till it lifts.”
Walter didn’t answer at first.
“Funny,” he finally muttered. “Whole life, all we do is run on time. And now, when time’s finally short, the world asks us to wait.”
Arthur turned. “Maybe that’s the point.”
They sat down for one last breakfast—salted fish, thick toast, boiled potatoes. The kind of food that sticks to your ribs and reminds you you’re still here.
Huck’s absence filled the room like smoke.
They didn’t say his name. But his dish sat near the door. Untouched.
After breakfast, Ruby took her tea and stepped outside. She needed air, she said. But Walter knew—she needed a moment with the trees.
He and Arthur sat at the table.
“I used to wonder what kind of man my father really was,” Walter said. “If I was just living in the shadow of a stranger.”
Arthur took a sip of his coffee. “You weren’t.”
“I think I hated him a little,” Walter added. “For not coming back.”
Arthur nodded. “He hated himself more.”
There was a long pause before Walter spoke again. “Did he love her?”
“Ruby?”
“No—my mother.”
Arthur’s eyes softened. “Yes. With every breath. But love… love doesn’t always win the way we hope. Sometimes it breaks you open, and sometimes it makes you run.”
Walter stared into the fire.
“I always thought I’d end up like him. Quiet. Buried in regrets.”
“You didn’t,” Arthur said. “You came back. And you brought Huck.”
Walter’s throat tightened. “That dog was the best parts of me. Loyal. Quiet. Didn’t ask for much. Just wanted to be near.”
Arthur smiled. “Sounds like someone else I know.”
Outside, Ruby called softly from the edge of the porch. “Walter, you need to see this.”
He stood, slowly, knees cracking. Arthur followed.
Out in the yard, between two pines, something glimmered faintly in the snow. Walter stepped closer.
It was a set of paw prints.
Just one trail.
Deep. Fresh.
And leading toward the river.
He looked at Ruby.
“Must be a fox,” she said quietly.
Walter crouched down, brushing away the snow.
But the prints were too big. Too wide. The edges soft, like the step of a heavy old dog who didn’t lift his feet much anymore.
Walter didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
He simply looked up at the trail and let himself believe.
Not in ghosts. Not in tricks of light.
But in memory.
And love.
And maybe, just maybe, in the idea that not every goodbye is final.
They followed the prints as far as the tree line. Then they faded, lost in wind-blown snow.
Walter placed his hand on Ruby’s shoulder.
She leaned into him.
“I think he just wanted us to know,” she whispered.
Walter didn’t ask what. He already knew.
Back in the cabin, the phone rang—Arthur’s satellite line.
He answered, spoke briefly, then hung up.
“Fog’s lifting. Frank says he’ll be here by morning.”
Walter nodded. “Then I guess we’ve got one more night.”
Arthur gave a small smile. “This one’s on the house.”
That evening, they lit a fire.
Ruby cooked stew. Arthur poured whiskey. Walter sat at the hearth, the harmonica in his lap, the box beside him, and the photo now folded into the front flap of his coat.
Outside, the Yukon whispered.
Inside, they listened.