Part 9 — Ashes and Apples
It was late afternoon when Walter stood beneath the old apple tree.
It had stopped bearing fruit years ago—around the same time Margaret passed—but its twisted limbs still reached into the sky like arthritic fingers praying for rain. Beneath it lay a bed of dry leaves and forgotten roots, and just beside it, an iron garden bench that time had rusted soft.
Walter sat slowly, his knees stiff and uncooperative. The bench creaked under his weight but held firm.
From this spot, you could see the entire backfield.
He remembered watching Samson chase his own tail here, years ago, while Walter carved their initials into the bark. W + M, deep and crooked, just above where Margaret once tied red ribbons during harvest.
The wind kicked up gently. It smelled like damp earth and moss and something older still.
Walter reached into the satchel he’d brought from the truck. Inside was a small cedar box—polished, handmade, the corners smooth from years of handling. He ran his thumb across the lid before opening it.
Inside: ashes.
Not Samson’s.
Margaret’s.
He had never known where to leave them—not until now. He’d kept her with him all these years, tucked away in closets, glove boxes, bookshelves… never quite ready to let go.
But now he knew.
He placed the box in his lap and looked around. The place was quiet, yet full—crowded with memories.
He saw young Margaret spinning in a yellow sundress. Heard the bark of Sammy the First. Felt the grass beneath his bare feet, the sting of a wasp, the thrill of youth.
And he saw Samson—both of them—bounding through the orchard as if time had no say.
Walter opened the box and let the wind take her.
Not all of it. Just a handful. The rest he’d scatter at the river.
The ash caught in the breeze like powdered light, curling upward, carried high into the limbs of the tree, as if the bark itself was hungry to remember.
And for the first time in years, Walter felt a release.
He leaned back, eyes closed, letting the sun warm his cheeks. There was no rush to go. No one waiting back in a city that didn’t remember his name. This was the place—the only place—he had ever truly belonged.
He heard a soft sound behind him.
Turning, he saw a dog.
Not Samson. Not quite.
Younger, leaner. Short coat, amber eyes. No collar.
The dog watched him for a long moment, head tilted slightly, like it understood more than it should. Then it padded over, sat a few feet away, and rested its chin on its paws.
Walter chuckled.
“Well, I’ll be.”
He reached into his pocket. One last piece of biscuit, broken in half.
“Hungry?”
The dog didn’t move. Just stared, patient as the hills.
He tossed the biscuit gently. The dog sniffed it, then took it in its mouth and chewed slowly.
“You’ve got good manners,” Walter said. “That’ll take you far.”
The dog stood, turned in a slow circle, then lay down at Walter’s feet.
Walter smiled, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the ache in his chest loosened.
He looked at the sky, now streaked with gold.
“I think I’ll stay the night,” he whispered.
The wind rustled through the grass. The apple tree sighed.