Part 9 – The Final Walk
Grace didn’t eat the next morning.
Didn’t lift her head.
Just blinked slowly when Eleanor whispered her name.
No fear. No pain. Just a slow fading, like candlelight drawing down to its wick.
Eleanor called the vet.
“He’s on his way,” she said aloud, though Grace hadn’t asked.
She stroked the soft fur beneath Grace’s ear, tracing the same path over and over.
“You don’t have to hold on for me,” she whispered. “But if you do, I’ll walk with you all the way.”
The sun had begun to rise behind the trees.
Birdsong filled the air.
Eleanor opened the back door.
Not to let in the breeze — but to let Grace smell the world again. The dirt, the dew, the memory of fields and fence posts and afternoon walks.
She laid Grace on the fleece blanket.
Kissed the space between her eyes.
And began to hum.
You are my sunshine… my only sunshine…
Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop.
She sang every line, gently, the way Harold once had.
By the end, Grace’s eyes were closed.
But Eleanor felt it — the soft lift of her paw. One last time.
The vet arrived quietly.
An older man. Gentle hands. No unnecessary words.
Eleanor nodded.
He administered the shot.
Grace didn’t stir.
She was already somewhere else.
Maybe with Harold. Maybe running across the hilltop they never reached again.
Eleanor sat beside her long after he left.
No rush. No regret.
Just love.
And silence.
And the weight of something sacred.
She buried Grace in the field behind the house.
Next to Baxter.
Next to the tree Harold had carved their initials into when they were young and full of belief.
She marked the grave with a stone she’d found years ago on a beach in South Carolina — round, smooth, shaped like a heart.
Then she stood, brushed the dirt from her palms, and said aloud:
“Her name was Grace.”
That night, the house was quiet again.
But not empty.
Eleanor brewed tea.
Set two cups out.
Out of habit.
Or memory.
Or something else.
Then she reached for her journal.
Wrote five words:
She taught me to live.
In the stillness, Eleanor heard the wind chime stir once.
Then settle.
As if the house itself had taken a breath.
