📖 Part 7: A Final Walk
The first snowfall came soft and soundless.
Ash Hollow turned white overnight — roofs dusted in sugar, fences powdered like forgotten cake. Clara rose early and opened the curtain to find the world hushed, blank. It felt holy, like the page of a book not yet written.
Shadow hadn’t stirred all night.
His chest rose. Fell. Rose again.
But it was slower now. Labored.
She knelt beside him and whispered, “Would you like to see the snow?”
He didn’t move.
Then, gently, he opened one eye — just enough.
And that was enough for her.
Clara pulled her coat over her nightgown, wrapped him in a wool blanket, and carried him to the porch. He was lighter than she expected. Hollow in places where there used to be strength.
She set him down on the top step.
The air was crisp, not cruel. A few flakes still drifted. Shadow blinked at them as they landed on his snout — one, two, three — and melted into memory.
“You used to love this,” she whispered.
She didn’t know who she was talking to anymore.
Toby. Shadow. Daniel.
Maybe all of them.
Clara walked into the yard.
“Come on,” she said, turning once.
Shadow didn’t rise. But after a long pause, he shifted.
Struggled.
Then, leg by leg, breath by breath, stood.
Just for a moment.
She ran to steady him — but he refused. Took one trembling step into the snow. Then another. And another.
Three steps.
That’s all he gave her.
Then he sat.
Clara knelt beside him in the white silence. His paw, wet and shaking, touched her boot once. Then curled beneath him.
She sat with him until her legs ached from the cold.
They watched the sun rise — a thin sliver of gold cutting through the fir trees. Birds stirred. Somewhere, a truck engine grumbled to life.
But none of it touched them.
Just a woman in a coat. And a dog who once stayed on her porch through a storm.
Now leaving the same way — quietly.
When Clara lifted him to carry him back inside, he sighed.
Not in pain.
But like someone saying thank you.
She placed him beside the fire.
Tucked the kitten back in the box nearby. Shadow turned his head just slightly, barely enough to see it.
And for the first time in hours — wagged his tail once.
A breath later, he slept.
That evening, as the sky turned violet and the shadows stretched long across the floor, Clara pulled out Daniel’s old flannel blanket. The one from their first camping trip. The one she couldn’t bear to wash.
She laid it over Shadow.
Kissed the space between his eyes.
And whispered, “You found your way home.”