🟣 PART 6 — What She Left in the Rain
The rain didn’t stop Rosie.
She stayed rooted in the center of the lavender patch, rain streaking down her fur, tail curled neatly against her side. She didn’t tremble. She didn’t flinch. Just sat there like she was part of the earth now—one more living stem beneath the sky.
Ellen stood at the porch steps, heart clenched. The instinct to rush in burned behind her ribs, but she didn’t move.
Because something in Rosie’s stillness asked her not to.
Moth sat just behind Rosie, soaked but undeterred, blinking slow and steady like a watchful guardian.
Ellen whispered into the damp air, “You chose this.”
Then she stepped back inside.
Not to leave Rosie.
But to let her finish what she had started.
—
She made a pot of chamomile tea, placed it by the window, and watched. The storm was no more than a whisper now—drizzles tapping the roof, the lavender gently bowed like they too were grieving.
By the time the rain stopped, Rosie had lowered herself into a sphinx-like rest.
Moth stayed at her side the whole time.
And Ellen?
She stitched.
She pulled out a new bundle of muslin, cut squares by the window, and filled them with not just dried buds, but pieces of the sunflower blanket. Threads from Rosie’s favorite toy. Even a snip of the blue bandana she wore now.
This wasn’t just another batch.
It was the last one Rosie would be part of.
—
Around noon, Rosie rose.
Soaked. Unsteady.
But standing.
Ellen stepped out just as Rosie limped toward her, each step deliberate. Moth darted ahead and meowed, as if to say She’s ready. Help her.
Ellen scooped Rosie into her arms.
The fur was damp. The body, lighter than ever.
But the eyes—they still held weight.
Rosie tucked her nose under Ellen’s chin and sighed.
And just like that, they were back inside.
—
The vet, Dr. Hannah Truett, came the next morning.
She was kind. Gentle. A woman in her fifties who had once patched up Buck after a bee sting gone bad. She didn’t ask unnecessary questions. Just sat on the floor and ran her hands along Rosie’s spine, her jaw, her belly.
“She’s holding on,” she murmured. “But not by much.”
Ellen nodded. “I know.”
“You have options,” the vet said, not unkindly. “We could ease her passing. Here. In the lavender, if that’s what you want.”
Ellen swallowed hard.
“I don’t think she wants that yet,” she said. “She’s… waiting for something.”
Dr. Truett placed her stethoscope gently against Rosie’s chest. The beat was slow. Irregular. Like the final ticks of an old grandfather clock.
“She’ll let you know.”
And Ellen believed it.
—
That evening, Ellen opened her mailbox and found a padded envelope from Oregon. No return address—just a note tucked inside:
“The sachet helped. But it was your words that kept me company. Thank you for knowing what silence feels like.”
Below that was a single line:
“If you ever need someone to remember her with, write back.”
Ellen read it three times.
Then tucked it into the old ledger where she’d been writing Rosie’s story in pieces.
Moth jumped onto the table and stared at her, one paw on the pen.
Ellen took the hint.
She wrote:
“She watched the rain like it carried answers.
She let it fall on her without flinching.
And in doing so, gave me permission to stay standing.”
She folded the page.
Tied it with lavender twine.
And set it atop the last sachet of the Rosie Batch.
—
On the fourth morning after the rain, Rosie didn’t rise.
She blinked.
She licked a bit of broth from Ellen’s palm.
But she no longer sought the lavender.
Instead, Ellen brought the lavender to her.
She crushed fresh sprigs beneath the blanket. Lit a small wax warmer by the bedside. Even dripped a bit of lavender oil onto Rosie’s old stuffed fox, setting it beside her like a childhood friend returned.
Moth lay beside them both, tail curled like a comma—like the sentence wasn’t finished yet.
And Ellen waited.
—
That night, Becca returned.
She didn’t knock. Just let herself onto the porch with a small tin of sugar cookies and quiet eyes.
Peaches was in her purse, peeking out.
“I brought the good ones this time,” Becca whispered, holding out the tin.
Ellen took them without words.
They sat in the dark, two women lit only by porch light and memory, listening to the faint sounds of lavender swaying and a dog’s uneven breath behind the screen door.
After a long pause, Becca asked, “Do you ever think you were meant to find her?”
Ellen didn’t answer right away.
Then finally, “I think she found me. I just happened to be paying attention.”
—
Before bed, Ellen whispered into Rosie’s ear:
“You’ve done enough, sweetheart.”
And she meant it.
Rosie’s chest rose once. Fell.
No reply.
Just breath.
Just now.
Just presence.
—
That night, a breeze slipped through the crack in the bedroom window. It smelled of lavender, yes—but something more. Something deeper. The scent of old wood and apple skin. Of rain drying on porch railings. Of worn flannel and sleeping animals.
Ellen slept in the armchair beside Rosie, hand resting lightly on her paw.
Moth curled at her feet.
And outside, in the lavender patch, the first fireflies of the season blinked quietly into the dark.