Part 7 — The Morning That Waited
The first light of dawn broke gently over Bellewood.
Not with the urgency of summer, but with the patient hush of spring—soft pinks and cool blues melting into the world like a whispered prayer. The gravel shimmered with dew. The trees along the hillside stretched in silence. And Walter McKinley sat still behind the wheel, watching the horizon wake.
Samson hadn’t stirred in hours.
His breath, when it came, was shallow. Quiet as a leaf falling in an empty room.
Walter hadn’t slept. He hadn’t needed to. Sleep belonged to other people now—to those with time left to spend. He just sat with his hand on the dog’s side, eyes open, listening to the quiet like it was an old friend come to call.
The town hadn’t changed overnight, but somehow it felt different now. Maybe it was the light, or maybe it was the way time bends when it knows the end is near.
Walter reached over to the dash and pulled out a small, cloth-bound journal. Its pages were dog-eared, yellowed, corners curling. It had once been Margaret’s recipe book, but after she passed, he’d started writing in it. Not recipes—memories.
He opened to a blank page and began to write.
April 12th, 2025.
We made it home.
You and me, Samson.
This town’s grown quiet, but I remember every step of it. The school, the river, the field where you chased leaves like a pup even when your joints started to fail.
I brought you here for goodbye. But I didn’t realize I was saying goodbye to so many things.
Not just you. Not just her. But who I was. Who we were.
And I’m grateful.
So grateful.
You gave me seventeen years of something most men only dream of.
You were my shadow, my guard, my reminder that loyalty outlives words.
If you decide to leave today, it’s okay.
You’re not alone.
You never were.
He closed the book.
Samson shifted, barely.
Walter leaned over, placing his forehead against the dog’s.
The breath came. A pause. Another breath.
Longer pause.
Then… stillness.
Walter didn’t move.
For a minute, or maybe more, he just sat there, holding his friend, letting the moment pass like a tide that knew exactly when to leave.
Then he reached behind the seat and pulled out a small, folded flag—one his grandson had sent after returning from his first deployment overseas. Walter had kept it tucked away, waiting.
He wrapped it around Samson’s body, slow and reverent, as if the dog had been a soldier returning from a war only the two of them understood.
“You made it,” he said softly. “You made it all the way.”
He opened the truck door. The air was crisp, clean. The smell of wet earth and apple blossoms clung to everything.
Walter stepped out, lifting Samson’s wrapped form gently into his arms.
He walked to the tree line—just past Margaret’s stone, to where the earth dipped slightly in a quiet grove. There, he had already prepared the ground. Days ago. Just in case.
He laid Samson down.
Not in haste. Not in grief. But in love.
He placed the flannel blanket beneath him, set the small tin box—Sammy’s old tag, Margaret’s apron, the last biscuit—beside the grave. Then he knelt and covered his friend with soil, slow and steady, until the earth closed like a sigh.
When it was done, he stood in the light of the new day, hands in his pockets.
And he whispered, “Thank you.”
The birds began to sing then. Not loudly. Just enough.
Walter turned, walked back to the truck. He sat down, pulled the door shut behind him.
He didn’t start the engine right away.
Instead, he sat still, watching the road ahead.
Alone, but not lost.