Part 7 – The One Who Came After Rain
The raccoon came back the next night.
Same path over the fence. Same slow steps across the grass. Same seat—right where Toby used to lie.
Lorraine didn’t turn on the porch light this time. She sat in the dark, sweater draped over her shoulders, mug in hand, watching through the lace curtain.
The raccoon didn’t dig or scratch or search for food. It didn’t even seem curious. It just… sat.
Shoulders hunched, front paws close together, its tail wrapped neatly beside the bench leg.
Lorraine whispered to no one, “I guess you’ve got stories too.”
It stayed for an hour, then disappeared into the trees without a sound.
By the third night, she left out a saucer of water and a soft folded towel where the ground was still muddy. She didn’t want it thinking it had to leave just because the world wasn’t dry.
—
Eli didn’t see the raccoon until Saturday.
He arrived early, Blue perched proudly in the crook of his arm. Lorraine had just finished hanging laundry on the backline—her husband’s old flannels, which she still wore for yardwork—and waved him in with a smile.
They sat on the bench again.
Petal arrived late and eyed the towel warily, waddling a wide circle around it.
“I don’t know his name,” Lorraine said.
“Whose?”
“The raccoon’s. He’s been coming here every night.”
Eli’s eyes widened. “Really? You didn’t scare it off?”
“He doesn’t act like a regular one. Doesn’t root through the trash or hiss. Just sits. Right there.”
Eli turned toward the towel, his expression thoughtful.
“Maybe he waited until Toby was gone.”
Lorraine hadn’t thought of that.
“You think they took turns?”
Eli nodded. “Maybe Toby left space. For someone who needed it.”
—
That afternoon, they planted lavender.
Two small shrubs, one on each side of Toby’s grave beneath the maple tree. Lorraine dug the holes; Eli patted down the roots. Blue supervised from the sunny porch rail, eyes half-closed, tail flicking in rhythm with the breeze.
“I think Toby would’ve liked these,” Lorraine said. “They smell like quiet.”
Eli smiled.
He pulled something from his backpack—a smooth stone, painted sky-blue with small yellow dots.
“I made this. For him.”
He placed it gently between the lavender plants. It read, in neat, blocky letters:
“LOVED ALWAYS. TOBY.”
Lorraine knelt beside it, running her fingers along the paint.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
Eli didn’t answer.
But his hand slipped quietly into hers.
—
The next morning, Lorraine found something unexpected by the bench.
Not the raccoon. Not feathers or fur.
A gift.
A clump of dry leaves, piled perfectly in a circle—something a child might build pretending it was a nest. In the center: a clean chicken bone, bleached white by sun and time, and a small gray feather.
She crouched down, studied it.
Eli arrived not long after.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I think it’s a peace offering,” she said.
“From the raccoon?”
She nodded. “Or someone else.”
Eli reached into his pocket and pulled out a miniature plastic dog—a toy no bigger than his thumb. “Then maybe we should give something back.”
They set the toy dog beside the bone.
Lorraine smiled. “An exchange.”
—
That night, she watched again.
The raccoon came. Slower than before. Rain had returned in the early evening, leaving the grass heavy and slick.
He sniffed the bone. Sniffed the toy.
Sat down.
Stayed longer.
This time, when he left, he dragged the towel with him—only a few feet—but curled into it like he’d been given a seat, not a warning.
Lorraine whispered through the window, “You’re part of it now.”
The next week, Smokey didn’t return.
Instead, Pete stopped by.
“Old boy’s having some hip trouble,” he said. “Vet says it’s arthritis, mostly. I’m giving him rest.”
Lorraine nodded, but her chest ached. She didn’t say what she feared: that Smokey wouldn’t make the walk again.
Pete looked at the bench, at the animals not there.
“You ever think about getting a new dog?” he asked gently.
Lorraine’s breath caught. “No.”
Then she looked at Blue, curled beside Eli’s boot.
“Maybe.”
—
Two nights later, a fox appeared.
Not in the yard. Just at the edge of the trees.
It stood still, ears high, eyes glinting in the moonlight. Then turned and vanished without stepping forward.
Lorraine wasn’t afraid.
She turned to the dark bench, still holding the shape of every soul who had ever touched it.
“Word’s getting out,” she said.
And she meant it.