🔹 Part 6 – A Visitor on the Porch
The mornings came softer now.
Tom Merrick had never been one for sentimentality. He used to mock it, in fact—called it “backward-looking nonsense” when Lillian would cry over photo albums or hang onto an old cereal box just because Josh once scribbled on the back.
But now, on this slow Monday morning, he found himself sitting on the porch with the same clay deer figurine nestled beside his coffee mug. It caught the light just right, casting a wobbly shadow on the table. Broken ear and all, it looked like it was listening.
He liked to think it was.
The house smelled faintly of bacon and wood polish—leftovers from yesterday’s breakfast with Matt and Josh. The skillet still sat drying on a towel. He’d leave it out another hour before putting it away. No rush. Not anymore.
Across the road, the wind moved through the trees in waves, lifting the porch flag and sending the first yellow leaves tumbling down. October had always been his favorite. Lillian used to call it the month when “everything dies beautifully.”
He smiled to himself.
And then came the knock.
He wasn’t expecting anyone.
Not this early. Not on a weekday. And certainly not on the front door. Most people knew by now to come to the side—closer to the kitchen, closer to his habits.
He stood slowly, back protesting, and stepped inside to the door.
Through the screen he saw her: a woman in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. Red hair tucked under a knit cap, denim jacket, backpack slung over one shoulder. She held something tight in her arms—a small bundle wrapped in a flannel blanket.
Tom opened the door halfway. “Can I help you?”
Her voice cracked a little, as if unused. “Are you Tom Merrick?”
He nodded. “Who’s asking?”
She glanced down, then looked him in the eye. “My name’s Emily. I—I think I have something that belongs to you.”
She unwrapped the bundle gently.
A dog.
Small, scrappy. Eyes cloudy with age. Its breathing shallow, chest rising in uneven pulls.
The world tilted, just a little.
Tom stared.
It wasn’t possible.
But it was.
Because he knew that dog.
Twelve years ago, a mutt named Sparky had followed Josh into the forest behind their old home and disappeared. Search parties had been called. Flyers printed. Tom himself had combed the ridgeline twice. But after three days, Lillian made him stop.
“He’s gone, Tommy,” she said. “Let the woods keep him if that’s what they want.”
He never stopped looking—not really. He just stopped saying he was looking.
Now here the dog was, fragile and ghostlike, cradled in a stranger’s arms.
Tom opened the screen door fully.
“Come in.”
They sat at the kitchen table. Emily sipped tea from Lillian’s old mug with the chipped handle. Sparky—or whatever was left of him—lay in a folded towel-lined box beside the wood stove, breathing in short, rattled bursts.
“I found him two days ago,” she said. “Near the Greenbrier trailhead. He was barely moving. I thought he was a stray at first. But he had a collar under all that fur. With a tag. Worn down, but I could just make out your last name.”
Tom nodded, too stunned to speak.
Emily went on. “I brought him to the vet. They said he’s… at the end. Maybe a few days. Maybe less.”
Tom stood, walked over, and knelt beside the box. The dog opened one eye.
It was cloudy. Distant.
But it saw him.
The tail tapped once against the cardboard.
Tom choked back the lump rising in his throat.
“I thought he was long gone,” he whispered. “We thought…”
Emily’s voice was gentle. “He must’ve been waiting for something.”
Tom reached into the box and ran his fingers gently over the dog’s fur. Sparse now. Brittle.
Sparky let out a soft whimper and nestled his head into Tom’s palm.
“I think he was waiting for you,” she added.
Later that evening, after Emily had gone—leaving behind only a handwritten note and the number of a mobile vet—Tom sat on the couch with Sparky curled against his side under Lillian’s flannel.
Josh had called when he heard the news. So had Matt.
Neither could believe it.
“Sparky’s back?” Matt had asked, disbelief in his voice.
Tom answered softly, “Not for long. But long enough.”
Josh wanted to visit again. “Can I sleep on the couch next weekend and keep him warm?”
“You can,” Tom said, smiling.
That night, Tom lit a single candle on the mantel.
He sat quietly.
Petting the dog that should’ve been dead years ago.
And in that silence, he remembered.
The day Sparky came home for the first time—chasing Josh, dragging a shoe from God knows where.
The night the dog lay beside Lillian’s hospital bed, refusing to leave her side.
The day he vanished into the woods like he was answering some ancient call.
And now—here. Returned.
Old.
Broken.
Breathing.
Like him.
He woke the next morning to a warmth on his chest.
Sparky had crawled onto him sometime in the night. Curled into the hollow between arm and ribs, resting his chin against Tom’s heart.
Tom didn’t move.
Just lay there, listening to the faint rattle of the dog’s breath.
Each inhale and exhale a kind of prayer.
He let the sun wash over them both.
And thought—maybe Lillian sent him home.
One last time.
To say goodbye.
