Part 9: Letters to the Empty Lot
Marie sat in the truck long after the sun had climbed over the pines, holding the repaving notice like it might dissolve if she gripped it too tightly.
Lot B to be repaved. Starting March 3rd. Please use Lot A during construction.
She stared out the window. The chairs. The patch of dirt where the maple had dropped its leaves. The soft indent where the river stones marked the center of it all—Scout’s place, Ellie’s place, everyone’s place.
Repaved. Flattened. Sealed over like none of it mattered.
She thought about asking them not to do it. Thought about calling the city, the clinic, whoever was in charge. But then she looked at the pavement—cracked, stained, pitted with gravel and stories.
Maybe that’s why they were doing it.
The world had no patience for places like this. Places that held grief like a gentle bowl.
—
That Thursday, Marie came early. Earlier than ever before.
She brought an old shoebox—Ellie’s name scratched into the top in fading blue ink—and set it near the maple tree.
Then she unfolded the first chair.
And waited.
By 9 a.m., Everett pulled in. His spaniel no longer trembled. She walked slowly now, legs bowed, but there was strength in her movement.
“You saw the sign?” he asked.
Marie nodded. “They’re going to cover it.”
Everett sighed. “They always do.”
Liza came next. Alone. But with a small bundle tucked under one arm—a folded piece of flannel. When she opened it, inside were two candles and a silver tag: Boots.
She added it beside Scout’s paw print.
“Micah wanted me to leave it,” she said softly. “He said, ‘Tell them he was real.’”
Marie smiled. “He was.”
—
More people came that day than ever before.
They didn’t coordinate it. No one planned. It just happened.
Dr. Hayes stepped out with a tray of muffins.
The beagle with the missing toe limped beside a teenage boy in a hoodie with holes in the sleeves.
Someone brought a folding easel and sketched the chairs as they were.
Haley came, her face pale, her eyes scanning the lot as if expecting Scout to still be there.
When she saw the memorial stones, she sat beside them and didn’t move.
—
At noon, Marie stood.
She pulled a piece of paper from her coat—carefully folded, trembling in her grip.
“I thought I’d read something,” she said, her voice catching. “If that’s okay.”
No one spoke.
She began.
“Dear Ellie,
I never expected a parking lot to become our final home.
But I guess you always did love the space outside more than the rooms inside.
I thought our walks ended when your legs gave out.
I was wrong.
They just changed direction.”
She paused. Swallowed.
“Dear Scout,
You weren’t mine. But you were ours.
You guarded more hearts than I can count.
You were the silence between sobs.
And you stayed longer than anyone expected.
Thank you for every Thursday you gave us.
We won’t forget.”
She folded the letter again and placed it in the box.
Then she stepped back.
Liza approached. She placed Micah’s laminated drawings inside.
Everett added a dog tag with a string threaded through it.
One by one, they came forward—leaving collar bells, torn leashes, scribbled notes, a cracked dog bowl with daisies drawn on the rim.
By the time the sun dipped past the roof of the clinic, the box was full.
Marie taped it shut.
Everett brought a spade.
They dug beside the maple, in the soft spot where Ellie once lay, where Scout once stood guard. It wasn’t deep. But it didn’t need to be.
They buried the box in silence.
No words. No ceremony.
Just hands on soil.
And memory.
—
Later that evening, Marie sat alone in her truck, watching the lot grow darker.
She could still hear the jingle of Ellie’s collar.
The click of Scout’s nails on gravel.
The hush of chairs unfolding like prayer books.
She rolled down the window.
The air smelled of earth and something like peace.
“I’ll come back,” she whispered.
“I promise.”
—
March came too quickly.
The maple tree was still bare, its roots curled around the buried box. One morning, a yellow bulldozer pulled into the far corner. Two men with clipboards marked the cracks.
Lot B would be stripped, leveled, and covered.
But not forgotten.
—
Marie did return.
After the repaving.
She stood at the edge, where the new lines had been painted. The stone circle was gone, but she could feel it.
Like a breath under the skin of the earth.
She walked to where the box had been buried and stood quietly. Then, from her coat, she pulled out a thermos and poured a little coffee onto the fresh black asphalt.
“For Ellie,” she whispered.
Then another pour.
“For Scout.”
And a final sip for herself.
“For all the ones who stayed.”