Part 8 – A Place for What’s Next
Lorraine hadn’t written a word in years.
Not since her husband passed.
He used to tease her about her journals—lined pages stacked on every shelf, full of garden notes and dog anecdotes, little poems she’d never show anyone. After he was gone, the pens dried up. The words didn’t come. Not even for Toby.
But now, with the bench empty most mornings and Eli’s stone warming under lavender roots, something returned.
She found one of the old notebooks in the drawer beneath the kitchen radio. Its cover was bent, but the pages were clean. She picked a pen that still worked, poured herself some tea, and sat at the table with Blue asleep on her feet.
She wrote the date in the top corner.
Then, in careful script:
“Toby is gone. But his place isn’t empty.
Every day, the bench becomes something new.
This morning: a raccoon, a single feather, and silence I could almost hear breathing.
Maybe we don’t grieve to forget.
Maybe we grieve to make space.”
She didn’t cry when she wrote it.
That part had passed.
But she did place a hand over the ink when she finished, pressing the warmth of her palm into the paper, as if to say: I remember you. You matter.
—
Eli came that afternoon with wide eyes and a folded flyer.
“There’s a dog,” he said breathlessly. “At the shelter in town. They say he’s too old to place, but I think he’s just waiting.”
Lorraine raised an eyebrow. “Waiting for what?”
Eli shrugged. “A bench.”
She laughed—soft and caught by surprise.
“I’m not ready,” she said, but the words were thin.
Eli handed her the flyer anyway.
It was a black-and-white printout, slightly smudged. The dog was a mutt. Graying muzzle. Long ears. Sad eyes.
His name was Grover.
“Twelve years old,” Eli said. “Doesn’t bark. Just leans on people.”
Lorraine read the whole thing twice.
She didn’t say yes.
She didn’t say no either.
—
That night, the raccoon didn’t come.
Neither did Petal.
The bench stood empty beneath the stars, the lavender whispering in the wind.
Lorraine didn’t panic. Not anymore.
She placed the flyer beside her journal and went to bed early, with the porch light off.
In the morning, she opened the door and smiled.
Blue sat on the bench.
Just Blue.
Tiny, proud, curled in the middle like he owned the world.
Petal waddled up five minutes later and stood on the armrest, blinking as if to say, Well, if he’s sitting there, I’ll try here.
And that’s when Lorraine decided.
She would go see Grover.
—
The shelter was small, just outside of town. The building smelled like disinfectant and dry kibble, and the staff wore tired smiles and hopeful eyes.
They led her to the last kennel.
Grover lay on a ragged blue mat, one paw stretched forward like he’d been dreaming of reaching.
He looked up when he saw her.
Didn’t bark.
Didn’t whimper.
Just looked.
Like Toby used to.
She crouched slowly and offered her hand.
Grover sniffed it. Then leaned into her fingers—his full weight, gently, like a child asking for nothing more than closeness.
“I don’t know if I can start over,” Lorraine whispered.
Grover didn’t move.
But he didn’t back away either.
They sat there for ten minutes.
She didn’t cry until the shelter worker said, “He hasn’t done that for anyone.”
—
They brought him home that evening.
He walked with a limp. His coat was patchy. He had two teeth missing and one ear that folded in half like someone had pressed it shut long ago.
But he moved with grace. Quiet grace.
Eli met them at the gate, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“He’s perfect,” the boy whispered.
Lorraine wasn’t sure what Grover thought of the bench yet.
He paused when they reached it. Sniffed around. Looked at the lavender. At the stone. At the old flannel still folded neatly beside the seat.
Then he sat.
Not where Toby used to sit—but just beside it.
Close enough to listen.
—
That night, Lorraine wrote again:
“Grover came home.
He carries the silence like Toby did—gentle, respectful.
I think the bench recognizes him.
Not as a replacement.
But as someone who understands the rules.”
—
The next morning, the raccoon returned.
He didn’t sit.
He stood at the edge of the garden, sniffed the wind.
Watched Grover.
Then turned and disappeared into the brush.
Lorraine whispered, “Thank you.”
Not for leaving.
But for making room.