Part 4 — Echoes in the Schoolyard
Walter drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting gently on Samson’s head.
The dog had fallen asleep again, curled on the passenger seat under the flannel blanket Margaret once used for chilly fall picnics. His breathing was thinner now. Each rise of his ribcage was a little slower, as though the effort to stay tethered to this world was asking too much.
Bellewood Elementary stood where it always had—half a mile from the river bend, tucked between two rows of sugar maples that still held the memory of autumns long gone. The building was closed now, a “For Sale” sign staked where the old flagpole had once stood, but the brick walls stood firm. Time hadn’t won here—yet.
Walter pulled into the gravel lot and sat for a moment before opening the door.
“You up for another stop, old boy?”
Samson didn’t answer. But Walter took his silence as yes.
He lifted the dog again, feeling the bones beneath the fur, lighter now than he’d ever remembered. Samson’s body, once strong enough to chase squirrels and pull down branches, was now a frail reminder of the years they’d shared.
The schoolyard was quiet. No children’s laughter, no skipping ropes or shouting boys daring each other to jump from the monkey bars. The swings swayed slightly in the breeze, though no wind could be felt.
Walter shuffled slowly down the cracked sidewalk toward the playground.
“This is where I met her,” he said, looking at the old steps leading up to the main door. “Margaret Jean. She transferred in third grade. Wore pigtails and had a gap between her front teeth. First thing she ever said to me was, ‘You’re sitting in my spot.’”
He chuckled softly, his throat catching.
“I moved. I’d have moved to Cincinnati if she asked.”
He sat down on a bench near the slide, easing Samson onto his lap.
“We had our first fight here, too. Fifth grade. She called me a show-off ‘cause I scored the winning run in softball and wouldn’t stop talking about it. She made me a card that said ‘I’m sorry I hurt your feelings but you still talk too much.’”
He stared out at the empty yard, eyes misting.
“I kept that card until we got married. She never knew. I burned it with her letters the day after her funeral. Couldn’t bear to read ’em anymore.”
The weight of memory pressed heavy on his shoulders.
A pickup truck rolled past on the road beyond the trees. The driver didn’t slow down. Walter figured they didn’t recognize him. Maybe they weren’t from Bellewood. Or maybe they were, and he was just another relic of a town that had learned to forget.
Samson stirred.
Walter looked down. The dog’s eyes were open now, but distant. His head lifted just an inch, nostrils twitching.
“You smell it, don’t you?” Walter whispered. “The grass. The dirt. The ghosts.”
Samson’s tail moved once.
Walter wiped at his eyes. “Good boy.”
They sat there a long while, just man and dog and the echoes of children who had long since grown up or grown old.
Eventually, the clouds rolled in, low and heavy with the promise of spring rain. Walter knew they didn’t have much light left.
He stood carefully, pulling Samson close to his chest.
“One more stop,” he murmured. “Just one more.”
Back in the truck, he turned west, toward a hill with a rusted gate and a line of weathered stones. Margaret waited there.