Part 5 – “The Girl with the Yellow Crayon”
The first snow came early that year.
Not much—just a soft white dusting that clung to the rooftops and melted on contact with the street. But for Naomi, it brought a memory. A real one. Not the flashes or whispers, but a full moment, stitched into her body like breath.
She had been three years old. Her mother had bundled her in an oversized coat with one broken zipper. Sully—just a pup then—had chased her through the snowflakes, slipping and sliding with paws too big for his legs. Lily had laughed so hard, she dropped the camera.
Naomi remembered it all.
The cold. The joy. The sound of her mother’s voice calling, “Faster, little bird!”
Naomi whispered those words now as she sat by the classroom window, watching the flakes drift.
“Little bird,” she said again.
Evelyn turned from the chalkboard, surprised. She hadn’t heard Naomi speak much all week. Not since the day they opened the hidden box.
Naomi didn’t look away from the snow.
“That’s what she called me.”
That same day, Angela received a call from a number she didn’t recognize.
“This is Officer David McKinley,” the voice said. “I’m with Greene County Animal Control. You registered a shepherd mix—Sully—about two months ago?”
Angela’s stomach tightened.
“Yes?”
“I’m calling because someone else recently inquired about a dog matching his description. Same scar, same gait. Says the dog belonged to his brother.”
Angela blinked.
“I don’t understand. Sully belonged to Naomi’s mother.”
“That’s the thing,” the officer said. “He says his brother rescued the dog three years ago. From a wreck.”
Angela’s grip tightened on the phone.
“Was his brother’s name Adam?”
There was a pause.
“Yes. Adam Greer.”
Angela sat down hard in the kitchen chair.
“He was the first person at the crash site.”
“I thought you might want to talk to his brother,” McKinley continued. “Name’s Joel Greer. He’s driving down from Kansas City. Asked if he could speak to whoever has Sully now.”
Angela hesitated.
“Did you tell him about Naomi?”
“No, ma’am. Just gave him your contact, as listed on the registration.”
Angela looked out the window.
Sully was in the yard, nose to the wind, still as stone.
Waiting again.
Joel Greer arrived the next morning.
He was tall, thin, and dressed like a man who used to have money but had since traded it for grief. His coat was old but clean. His eyes held the kind of weariness Angela recognized in herself.
They met in the driveway.
Sully emerged from the porch the moment the car door opened. He didn’t bark. Didn’t flinch. He walked slowly across the frost-dusted ground and stopped a few feet from Joel.
Joel knelt.
“Well, damn,” he whispered, voice cracking. “It really is you, isn’t it?”
Angela stepped forward, cautious.
“You knew Sully?”
Joel didn’t look up. He ran a hand gently down the dog’s back, his touch reverent.
“My brother—Adam—was a paramedic. First one on the scene when Naomi’s mother crashed. He pulled Lily from the car, but she didn’t make it. Found Naomi crying in the back seat. And this dog…” he swallowed, “this dog wouldn’t leave her side.”
Angela listened, heart thudding.
“They tried to track the dog’s ownership,” Joel continued, “but Lily’s ID had been burned in the wreck. No family was reachable. The system messed up the paperwork. Naomi went into foster care. Sully was sent to a shelter. Adam found out and adopted him.”
Angela stepped back, stunned.
“But then why didn’t Sully stay with your brother?”
Joel sighed.
“Adam died a year later. Cancer. Quick and mean. And Sully… he just vanished.”
He looked up finally, tears streaking his face.
“I thought he ran off to die. But he didn’t. He ran off to find her.”
He looked toward the house.
“Naomi.”
Angela let him in.
Naomi was sitting on the rug in the living room, sketchbook open. She looked up as Joel entered, Sully trotting at his side.
Joel paused.
He didn’t try to hug her. Didn’t kneel or smile too wide. He just stood quietly and said, “You probably don’t remember me. But I met you once, after the crash. You held onto Sully so tight the ambulance driver let him ride with you.”
Naomi blinked.
She looked at Sully, then back to Joel.
“You were wearing a red jacket.”
Joel’s eyes widened.
“You remember that?”
“You had stickers in your pocket,” Naomi added. “You gave me a turtle one.”
Joel choked on a laugh.
“Still got a whole drawer of ’em.”
Naomi smiled.
“I think Sully liked you.”
Joel lowered himself to the floor slowly.
“I think Sully’s got a better heart than all of us put together.”
Sully rested his head in Naomi’s lap.
Quiet.
Solid.
Home.
That evening, Joel sat with Angela over coffee.
“She’s strong,” he said. “Stronger than any kid I’ve met. And this dog—he didn’t just come back to protect her. He came back to help her remember who she was.”
Angela looked toward the living room, where Naomi was asleep under a blanket, her sketchbook resting beside her. Sully curled at her side, as he always was.
“She’s not broken,” Angela said. “She was just waiting for someone to believe her.”
Joel nodded slowly.
“I don’t want to disrupt that. I just needed to know he was okay. And that she was okay.”
“She is now,” Angela said. “Because of him.”
Joel stood, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out something wrapped in cloth.
“This was in Adam’s locker. I thought maybe Naomi should have it.”
Angela unwrapped it slowly.
Inside was a small tin.
Inside the tin—a single sticker.
A green turtle.
And beneath it, a folded slip of paper, written in rushed handwriting.
“Found girl and dog alive. Told the dog to keep her safe. I think he understood.”
– Adam G.
Angela’s eyes filled.
Naomi would have that note someday.
For now, she would sleep.
With Sully beside her.
And the snow still falling, slow and steady, like the past was finally settling into place.
Part 6 – “The Girl with the Yellow Crayon”
It was Evelyn Parrish who suggested the idea.
“We’re doing a Memory Circle next Friday,” she told Angela over the phone. “It’s something I started last year—kind of like show-and-tell, but deeper. Each student brings in an item that helps them remember someone important. Parents come, too. It’s informal, but… it might be good for Naomi.”
Angela hesitated.
“She’s come so far. But talking in front of people?”
“She doesn’t have to speak if she’s not ready,” Evelyn said gently. “She can draw. Or just bring Sully. The others already know there’s something special about him.”
Angela looked across the living room.
Naomi sat cross-legged on the rug, holding a photograph in one hand and Sully’s paw in the other. She wasn’t looking at either. Her eyes were closed, as if listening to something buried in the walls.
“I’ll ask her,” Angela said.
That night, while brushing Naomi’s hair, Angela mentioned it softly.
“There’s something called a Memory Circle at school next week,” she said. “You don’t have to go, but if you wanted to show one of your pictures—or talk about Mommy—you could.”
Naomi was quiet.
Angela didn’t push.
But the next morning, she found a fresh drawing waiting on the kitchen table.
It was of Sully.
He was sitting in the center of a ring of children. His eyes were closed, and above him hovered a yellow crayon like a halo.
Underneath, in neat block letters, Naomi had written:
“He remembers for me.”
The auditorium at Ash Grove Elementary was nothing fancy.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the folding chairs creaked every time someone shifted. But for the children, it was sacred space. It was the one time grown-ups sat still and listened.
The kids had brought all kinds of things.
A worn baseball glove. A grandpa’s harmonica. A faded apron that still smelled like cinnamon.
When it was Naomi’s turn, Evelyn gave her a reassuring nod.
Naomi stood slowly, sketchbook in one arm, the yellow crayon tucked into the spiral binding like a secret weapon. She walked to the front of the room, Sully trotting beside her. No one said a word.
She placed the sketchbook on the stand, opened it to a drawing of her mother—Lily—standing in a field of sunflowers, arms outstretched, Sully beside her.
“I didn’t talk for a long time,” Naomi began, voice small but clear.
Angela’s breath caught in her throat.
“Because I forgot too much. And I thought if I remembered… it would hurt more.”
She looked down at Sully.
“But then he came back. And the pictures came back. And now I don’t feel empty.”
She lifted the yellow crayon.
“This was Mommy’s favorite color.”
She held it up to the light like a candle.
“She used to say it was the color of the things we forget but don’t mean to.”
Then she sat.
The room stayed silent for a beat longer than necessary.
Then, softly, Evelyn clapped. Others followed. Not loud, not fast—just warm. Gentle.
Naomi leaned into Sully’s side.
He didn’t move.
But his tail thumped once, slowly.
That afternoon, after the guests had gone and the chairs were stacked, Evelyn handed Naomi a small envelope.
It wasn’t from the school.
Naomi turned it over.
Her name was written in careful cursive on the front.
Inside was a letter. Typed. Short.
Dear Naomi,
I was your mom’s friend. I met you when you were little, but you probably don’t remember. I kept something that belonged to her, in case you ever came looking.
If you want it, I’ll be at the park bench near the duck pond, Sunday at 2.
You don’t have to come. But I’d like to meet the girl with the yellow crayon.—Marlene
Angela read it twice before folding it.
She looked at Naomi.
“You don’t have to go.”
But Naomi was already packing her sketchbook.
And Sully, who had been napping near the couch, stood and stretched.
As if he’d been expecting it all along.
They arrived early.
The duck pond at Ash Grove Park was half-frozen, geese waddling across the ice like clumsy ghosts. Naomi sat on the bench, Sully at her feet, sketchbook in her lap.
At exactly 2:00, a woman appeared from the path.
Mid-sixties. Round glasses. Silver braid.
She approached slowly.
“Naomi?” she asked, unsure.
Naomi nodded.
The woman smiled, mist in her eyes.
“You look like her. Same eyes.”
She opened a canvas bag and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle.
“I kept this. I didn’t know why. Just… I couldn’t let it go.”
She handed it to Naomi.
Inside was a scarf. Yellow. Faded and soft. Naomi buried her nose in it.
It smelled like wind and dust.
But under that—beneath the layers of time—was something warmer.
Something that had once hummed lullabies against her cheek.
Naomi looked up.
“Thank you,” she said.
And for the first time, she meant it with her whole voice.
That night, Naomi tied the scarf around Sully’s neck.
He looked older now. A little slower climbing stairs. But he stood tall beneath the fabric.
Like a soldier bearing memory.
Naomi drew one more picture before bed.
It was of herself, standing on a hill with Sully. Her mother’s arms wrapped around them both. The yellow scarf fluttering like a banner.
Underneath, in her now-steady handwriting, she wrote:
“Not lost. Just waiting.”