Part 7 – “The Girl with the Yellow Crayon”
The first sign was the stairs.
Sully hesitated halfway up, one paw lifted mid-step, head lowered in confusion. Naomi stood behind him, hand on the banister, eyes wide.
“It’s okay, boy,” she whispered. “Just a little more.”
But Sully didn’t move.
Angela came from the kitchen and saw them frozen there—Naomi waiting patiently, Sully trembling ever so slightly.
She said nothing.
She simply scooped Sully into her arms like he was light as a shadow and carried him up to Naomi’s room.
That night, Sully didn’t curl on the bed.
He lay on the rug instead, breathing slow, eyes half-closed. Naomi reached down from the mattress and touched the yellow scarf at his neck. It felt heavier than before. Or maybe that was her heart.
“Are you tired?” she asked.
Sully didn’t answer. But his tail gave one soft tap against the floor.
Just once.
Like yes.
The vet’s name was Dr. Lee—a quiet woman with kind eyes and a crooked smile. She’d known Sully from the first day he showed up at the school, had even offered to register him free of charge.
Angela brought him in alone the next day while Naomi was at school.
“He’s slowing down,” Angela said. “Not eating much. Trouble with stairs. Sometimes he just… stands and stares.”
Dr. Lee examined him gently, running practiced hands over ribs, joints, and gums.
“He’s older than we thought,” she said. “Ten, maybe eleven. Probably ran hard for years. A dog like that… he wouldn’t rest until his job was done.”
Angela swallowed.
“And now?”
Dr. Lee looked up.
“He’s still holding on. But you might need to start preparing her.”
Angela nodded slowly.
“She’s already lost so much.”
Dr. Lee offered a soft smile.
“Maybe this time, she’ll get to say goodbye.”
That night, Angela sat beside Naomi in bed, brushing her hair like she used to when Naomi was too silent to sleep.
“Sweetheart,” she said gently, “Sully’s getting older.”
Naomi didn’t look up from the sketchbook.
“I know.”
Angela hesitated.
“Sometimes when animals get older, they start to slow down. They get tired.”
Naomi kept drawing.
“Mommy got tired too,” she said.
Angela blinked.
Naomi continued, voice quiet but even.
“But she didn’t get to say goodbye. Maybe Sully will.”
Angela felt her throat tighten.
“What are you drawing?”
Naomi turned the book.
It was a picture of Sully lying in the grass. The sky was full of stars. But instead of wings or halos, Sully had roots.
Like a tree.
Like he’d become part of the earth.
“Trees don’t leave,” Naomi said. “They stay. Even after they’re gone.”
Angela pulled her close.
“I think you’re right.”
Over the next week, Sully’s steps grew slower.
But his presence never wavered.
He still walked Naomi to the car each morning. Still curled at her feet in the classroom. Still licked her hand when she had trouble finding words.
He didn’t whimper. Didn’t cry.
He simply did what he’d always done.
He stayed.
And Naomi stayed with him.
She began spending more time on the floor, beside him. Reading books aloud, sometimes only a sentence at a time. Drawing pictures of their best days. Telling him about the future.
“We’ll plant flowers in spring,” she said one morning, her voice full of quiet certainty. “Yellow ones. Mommy’s favorite. I’ll tell them about you.”
Sully blinked slowly, his body still but his eyes wide, present.
Angela watched from the doorway.
This wasn’t a child losing a pet.
It was a girl saying goodbye to the one soul who had bridged her life between silence and song.
The first snow had come and gone.
Now, just before Christmas, the days were gray and quiet.
Naomi and Sully sat together in the backyard, a blanket wrapped around them. The sky was the color of old paper. Frost clung to the swingset.
Angela brought out two mugs—hot cocoa for Naomi, warm broth for Sully—and sat with them.
“He’s happy,” Naomi said, her cheek against Sully’s neck.
Angela looked at the dog’s ribs, the slow rise and fall of his breath.
“Yes,” she said softly. “He is.”
“I think he came back so I could remember Mommy,” Naomi whispered.
Angela nodded. “And what else?”
Naomi looked up.
“So I could remember myself.”
Then she took the yellow crayon from her coat pocket.
The wrapper was nearly worn off now. The tip dulled from use.
She pressed it gently into Angela’s palm.
“You keep it for now.”
Angela held the crayon carefully, like it might crumble.
“But what if you need it?”
Naomi smiled.
“I remember everything now.”
She looked at Sully.
“And so does he.”
That night, as the house fell silent and stars blinked over Ash Grove, Naomi knelt beside Sully on the rug and whispered something only he could hear.
Then she kissed his scarred forehead and climbed into bed without a sound.
When Angela checked on them hours later, she found Sully still curled in the same spot.
His chest didn’t rise.
His eyes were closed.
But there was peace on his face.
And beside him, Naomi’s drawing—a fresh one—lay on the floor.
It showed Sully under a tree, the yellow scarf blowing like a banner.
Above him, a child and a woman holding hands, waving from a distance.
Not goodbye.
Just “I’ll see you again.”
Part 8 – “The Girl with the Yellow Crayon”
They buried Sully beneath the maple tree in the backyard.
Naomi chose the spot.
Not because it was where the sun hit first or where the birds gathered in spring, but because Sully used to lie there on warm days, watching the sky like it held stories no one else could hear.
Angela knelt beside her as they laid him to rest, wrapped in the yellow scarf, his body curled as if still keeping watch. Naomi placed her drawing on his chest. The one with the tree and the waving figures.
“I’ll draw more,” she whispered. “So you won’t forget.”
They marked the grave with a simple stone Naomi painted herself.
It read:
“Sully. The one who stayed.”
And beneath it, in tiny, careful lettering:
“He remembered.”
The days that followed were quieter, but not hollow.
Naomi no longer stood at the back door at night or pressed her ear to the wind. She spoke in full sentences now—softly, yes, but with intent. She returned to drawing not only the past, but the future. Sunflowers and birds. A house with open windows. A swing tied to a strong tree limb.
Grief sat beside her, but it didn’t silence her.
Angela noticed it in the smallest things.
Naomi hummed while brushing her teeth.
She helped fold laundry without being asked.
She reached for Angela’s hand in public without hesitation.
The yellow crayon stayed on Angela’s desk now, tucked in a ceramic mug of pens. Naomi never took it back. She didn’t need to.
One afternoon, Angela found her cutting small pieces of thick paper at the kitchen table.
“What are you making?” she asked.
Naomi looked up.
“Cards. For the kids at school.”
Angela picked one up. It had a sunflower drawn in yellow crayon and a message inside in Naomi’s neat block handwriting:
“Thank you for listening. I’m not afraid to talk anymore.”
Some cards had little poems. Others just said: “You helped me remember.”
Angela held back tears.
“Do you want help delivering them?”
Naomi shook her head.
“I think I can do it.”
At school, Evelyn watched as Naomi moved through the classroom during break.
One by one, she handed out the cards.
She didn’t make a big deal of it. Didn’t wait for a thank-you. She just pressed each card into a classmate’s palm and gave a little nod.
When she reached Evelyn’s desk, she held out the last one.
Evelyn opened it.
Inside was a drawing of Sully asleep under the stars and these words:
“Thank you for believing he was real.”
Evelyn couldn’t speak.
She simply reached out and held Naomi’s hand.
Naomi squeezed back.
Angela took Naomi to the animal shelter the following Saturday.
Not to adopt. Just to visit.
Naomi brought her sketchbook.
The dogs barked and whined, eager for attention, but Naomi moved slowly, patiently, pausing at each pen.
She stopped in front of a trembling terrier mix with one torn ear and patches of missing fur.
He growled softly, low and uncertain.
Naomi didn’t flinch.
She sat on the floor, cross-legged, sketchbook open.
And began to draw.
Angela watched from the hallway.
She saw the moment the dog’s growl faded, replaced by stillness. Naomi’s voice rose in a soft murmur as she talked to him—words about wind and trees and a scarf that smelled like sunshine.
When Naomi stood to leave, she taped her drawing to the outside of the kennel.
Underneath the picture of the dog, she’d written:
“You’re not broken. You’re waiting.”
Angela crouched beside her as they walked back to the car.
“Did you want to bring him home?” she asked gently.
Naomi shook her head.
“Not yet. But maybe someone else will see him better now.”
Angela smiled.
“And maybe someday, when you’re ready…”
Naomi looked up, her eyes bright.
“I’ll know.”
That night, Naomi brought the yellow crayon back into her room.
She placed it on the windowsill next to Sully’s last picture.
Then she opened her new sketchbook—its pages still crisp and untouched.
On the first page, she drew a girl holding a leash, standing beside a silhouette. No name. No face yet. Just the outline of a future friend.
Underneath, she wrote:
“Love finds its way back.”
And then, very small, in the corner:
“Sully, I’ll keep drawing. You keep watching.”
She closed the book and curled into bed, the winter wind tapping gently at the glass.
Outside, the stars shimmered.
And somewhere beyond them, something loyal and true listened with ears that never stopped hearing.