Part 10 – The Space That Stayed Open
The mornings turned warm again.
Lorraine opened the kitchen windows each day before breakfast, letting the scent of dew and lilac roll in with the sun. The bench stood under the sugar maple, worn but proud, its white paint chipped to soft gray beneath the arms of spring.
Grover still made his walk.
It had become slower. Each step measured, each pause longer. His breathing had grown heavier, a low rumble in his chest like distant thunder. But he still made it to the bench, every day, without fail.
He never took Toby’s spot.
Never once tried.
Instead, he lay just beside it—shoulder brushing the flannel, paws stretched into the grass like roots that had finally found rest.
Blue followed, smaller but bolder now. He no longer trembled under porch steps or flinched at wind. He curled close to Grover’s ribs like they were tethered. Like he’d grown from the soil of the old dog’s warmth.
Petal came less often.
She was older, too. Her steps uncertain, her feathers no longer bright. But when she came, she sat on the bench itself, right in the middle, like a little queen still claiming what was hers.
And the visitors came, too.
Not as many now. The rush had passed.
But every few days, someone new would wander in, holding a leash or a leash-shaped memory. They’d sit. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they left tokens behind: a pawprint pressed in clay, a photo laminated in plastic, a child’s drawing of a cat with angel wings.
Lorraine kept each one in a box on the porch.
She labeled it, in faded marker: “Love That Stays.”
—
On a soft April morning, Lorraine found Grover lying by the bench with his head on Blue’s side.
His breathing was shallow.
He didn’t lift his head when she called.
Just blinked. Once.
Eli arrived within the hour. He said nothing when he saw Grover—just sat down in the grass beside him, legs crossed, hands folded.
The boy didn’t cry.
Neither did Lorraine.
Some goodbyes, when they’re honest and slow, don’t need tears.
They need presence.
They need witness.
That afternoon, Grover passed under the maple tree, beside the bench he never claimed.
Lorraine buried him near Toby—just close enough for conversation, just far enough for peace.
She planted marigolds this time.
Bright orange. Full of life.
Eli pressed a small carved stone between the blooms.
“Thank you for waiting with us.”
—
Weeks passed.
Spring deepened.
The grass came back thicker, richer than it had in years. The lavender hummed with bees. Petal began nesting in the rosemary, fussing at squirrels like it was her job.
Blue remained.
He no longer looked like a kitten. His legs had grown long and his ears stayed too big for his head. But he still slept under the bench every night.
And sometimes, in the earliest dawn, Lorraine would find him sitting in Toby’s old place.
Just sitting.
Not replacing.
Just remembering.
—
One morning, Lorraine stepped out with her coffee and found something unexpected.
Not an animal.
Not a person.
But a note.
Tucked under a painted rock.
It read:
“My mother came here last fall, after our dog passed. She said it was the first time she felt quiet again.
Today, I came because she’s gone now.
And I just wanted to sit where she once sat.
Thank you for not moving the bench.”
Lorraine folded the note carefully.
Tucked it in the guestbook.
Then sat.
Not on the bench.
But beside it.
On the ground.
She placed her hand over the soft earth where Toby and Grover rested.
And whispered, “Still here.”
The wind passed through the maple like a sigh.
Above her, a mourning dove cooed once, then fell silent.
And the bench stood waiting—weathered, warm, and wide enough for whatever came next.
THE END