Part 6 — The Letter in the Glove Box
By nightfall, the rain had stopped.
The clouds cleared in tatters, revealing stars that shimmered faintly through the thinning mist. Walter sat in the truck, wrapped in silence. His back ached from the long day, but he didn’t notice. His hands were folded over the steering wheel. He hadn’t turned the ignition. There was no need.
Samson slept in the passenger seat, head resting on the flannel. His chest rose and fell, but barely.
Walter had made peace with it now—the end that was coming. The long goodbye was nearly over.
He reached into the glove box and pulled out a weathered envelope.
It had yellowed around the edges. The name on the front, written in slanted script, still read clearly: “Walter – open when the time feels heavy.”
It was Margaret’s handwriting.
He’d kept it hidden there for years, ever since the day she handed it to him in the kitchen. She was already tired by then, her face thinner, her hands cold even in August. She didn’t ask him to read it—not then. She just kissed his forehead and slid it into the glove box herself.
“The time will come,” she said. “You’ll know.”
And now he did.
He slid a finger under the flap, careful not to tear it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded twice, with her perfume still clinging to the fibers—lavender and clean linen.
He unfolded it with trembling fingers.
My love,
If you’re reading this, it means Samson has grown old. And maybe so have you.
I want you to know something: I never feared death. Not really. Not while I had you beside me. And even now, I don’t fear what comes after. Because you gave me a life so full of joy that I carry it with me—wherever I go.
I know you, Walter H. McKinley. You’re loyal to a fault. You carry pain like a soldier carries medals—close to your heart, never complaining. But my darling, you don’t have to be so strong all the time.
Let yourself miss me. Let yourself cry. Let yourself laugh at the silly things—like the way Samson barked at his own reflection, or how you burned pancakes every Sunday for seventeen years and never learned better.
And when the time comes to say goodbye to him, do it with grace. He stayed for you. Just like you stayed for me.
Bring him home. Then rest.
I’ll be waiting—with your coffee, and your chair, and that awful flannel I could never throw away.
Forever yours,
Margaret Jean
Walter didn’t move for a long time.
The letter rested in his lap like a weight made of wind. His breath caught in his chest. He didn’t cry right away. Instead, he reached over and placed a hand gently on Samson’s back.
“We’re almost there,” he whispered. “She’s waiting.”
The wind picked up again—soft this time. Like a whisper against the windows.
He looked out across Bellewood.
It had changed. Time had taken most of it. But the trees were still there. The river still flowed. And now, in the dark, he could almost see the glow of a porch light at the edge of the world.
He folded the letter and placed it back in the glove box.
Then he reached across the seat, scooped Samson close, and rested the dog’s head in his lap.
“Go if you need to, boy,” Walter whispered, voice low and sure. “You’ve done enough.”
Outside, the stars pulsed gently, blinking memories into the quiet sky.
And the truck sat still, waiting, as night wrapped them in a blanket older than words.