Part 7: The Shoe and the Letter
The first real storm of spring rolled in on a Wednesday.
It came with low thunder, hard rain, and the kind of wind that bent stop signs and made windows groan in their frames. At school, recess was cancelled, and the smell of wet coats filled the halls.
Shadow hated thunder.
Lina had learned this quickly. He didn’t bark or whimper—he simply trembled. Quiet as always, but deep, as if the shaking started in his bones and had nowhere else to go.
During lunch, she snuck him into the library storage closet with a soft blanket and an open jar of peanut butter.
“Just for today,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head. “It’s safe in here.”
Shadow licked her chin and curled up small.
When the final bell rang, the rain still hadn’t let up. Most kids were grumbling, flipping up hoods and running to waiting cars. Lina walked. Always had. Two blocks and a hill. That was the deal.
But today, halfway home, something happened.
A woman in a blue sedan rolled down her window at the crosswalk. “Hey! You’re the girl with the dog!”
Lina hesitated, clutching her backpack. “Yes, ma’am?”
“My daughter’s in your class—Maya. She told me about your poem. About Shadow. That was… beautiful.”
Lina blushed. “Thank you.”
“I just wanted to say—it mattered. What you said. Maya’s been writing in a journal now. She says if a quiet girl like you can say big things, maybe she can too.”
Lina didn’t know what to say. So she nodded.
As the sedan drove off, something loosened in her chest. A quiet kind of pride. Not loud, not shiny. But rooted. Real.
That night, while drying Shadow’s damp fur with her mom’s old towel, Lina noticed something odd.
His collar—his new collar—was twisted.
She adjusted it and felt something tucked under the edge of the tag. Her fingers brushed paper. Folded. Yellowed.
Very carefully, she pulled it out.
It was a note. Small. Smudged. Torn at one corner.
“To whoever finds him —
His name is Baxter.
He’s scared of loud things.
Tell him I love him.
Tell him I’m sorry.”
— R
Lina sat very still.
Her heart felt like it had moved to her throat.
She read the note twice more, then again. She didn’t cry. Not yet. But something heavy settled around her shoulders, like a blanket soaked in rain.
She thought of Principal Massey. Of how his voice always sounded like it had just swallowed grief. Of how he never quite used Ryan’s name without blinking fast afterward.
She folded the note carefully and placed it in her backpack.
Tomorrow, she would return it.
Not because it was hers to give back.
But because some words shouldn’t be lost twice.
The next morning, she asked to see Principal Massey before class.
He was pouring over attendance sheets, wearing a sweater that had seen too many winters. He looked up, surprised but not unkind.
“Everything alright, Miss Torres?”
She didn’t speak right away.
Instead, she held out the note with both hands.
He took it slowly, eyebrows drawn.
Then he read it.
And his hands shook.
“I didn’t know,” he murmured. “He must have left this… in the collar before…”
He trailed off.
Lina stood quietly, her fingers twitching at her sides.
He folded the paper, not back into the collar—but into his pocket. Over his heart.
Then he looked at her. Really looked.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “For finding him. For finding this.”
Lina didn’t know what to say.
So she said what mattered.
“He never stopped waiting.”
Principal Massey closed his eyes. Just for a second.
When he opened them again, he looked years older—but lighter, too.
“I think,” he said, voice rough, “we’re all waiting for someone.”
He glanced down at the dog curled at Lina’s feet.
“And sometimes, if we’re lucky, they find us first.”
Part 8: The Walk That Wasn’t Supposed to Happen
Saturday morning came quiet and golden.
The storm had passed, leaving puddles that glittered in the sun and tree branches heavy with memory. Lina Torres stood by the door with a leash in her hand and hope pooling in her chest.
“Just down the hill and back,” her mother said, tying her robe tighter. “If he starts limping again, you carry him home.”
“I will,” Lina promised.
Shadow wagged his tail once, slow and steady, as if to say: I’m ready.
He hadn’t walked farther than the schoolyard since she found him. His paw, once swollen and tender, was now steady enough for short trips. But this—this was different. This was the sidewalk. The real world. Where cars passed and strangers smiled and anything could happen.
Lina clipped on the leash and opened the door.
They stepped outside together.
The neighborhood was still waking up—porch swings creaked, sprinklers clicked to life, and birds argued from wires overhead. Shadow moved slowly at first, cautious, pausing at every crack in the pavement as if remembering something painful.
Lina didn’t rush him.
They made it halfway down the block before he stopped in front of a driveway.
There was nothing special about it—just a faded basketball hoop, an oil stain shaped like Texas, and a dented mailbox. But Shadow sniffed the curb and sat, eyes locked on the garage door.
“Do you know this place?” Lina asked.
He didn’t move.
Just stared.
A woman stepped out from the porch across the street. She was carrying a bag of birdseed and wearing an oversized flannel shirt. When she saw Shadow, her face changed.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, crossing the street slowly. “Is that… is that Baxter?”
Lina tensed. “His name’s Shadow now.”
The woman knelt down, careful not to startle him. “I used to see that dog every morning with Ryan. They passed by here on their way to the lake. He always walked just a little ahead, like he was guiding him.”
Shadow wagged once. Then twice.
“After the accident,” the woman continued, “I thought he was gone for good.”
Lina knelt beside Shadow. “He was hiding. Like me.”
The woman smiled softly. “Sometimes grief does that. It makes us small.”
She stood and looked at Lina like she wanted to say something else—but instead, she just touched her shoulder gently and said, “Take good care of him.”
“We take care of each other,” Lina replied.
Later, they stopped by the lake.
It wasn’t far. Just beyond the line of cottonwoods that bordered the last row of houses. The path was soft from rain, and tiny frogs leapt from puddle to puddle like they had somewhere important to be.
Lina and Shadow sat on a boulder overlooking the water.
She took out the folded note—Ryan’s note—and read it aloud again. Not for herself this time. For Shadow. For the trees. For anyone still listening.
When she finished, Shadow pressed his nose into her hand.
“I think he forgives him,” she said quietly. “Even if he never heard the words.”
She leaned her head against Shadow’s.
“I think you already did.”
That night, Principal Massey called.
Lina’s mom answered, surprised but not bothered.
“He wants to talk to you,” she said, handing over the phone.
Lina took it carefully. “Hello?”
His voice was warm, but tired. “I’ve been thinking about the showcase. About your poem. And about that note.”
She waited.
“There’s something I’d like to ask,” he said. “But only if you feel ready.”
“Okay,” Lina said.
“There’s a memorial bench going in near the lake,” he explained. “For Ryan. And I was wondering… would you be willing to help dedicate it? Maybe read your poem again. Or something new.”
Lina looked over at Shadow, who lifted his head from his blanket.
“Yes,” she said.
She didn’t hesitate this time.
“I’d like that.”