🔹 Part 9 – When Leaves Begin to Fall
The leaves began to fall like they always did—first one, then a flurry.
But this time, Tom noticed.
Not just the colors—amber and rust and gold—but how each one seemed to move with intention. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just ready.
It had been three weeks since Sparky passed. Two since Matt read the letter.
He never said much about it.
Just one quiet afternoon, after a walk to the creek and back, Matt placed a fresh envelope on the porch table.
Tom never opened it.
He didn’t need to.
Some words, once written, don’t need to be reread. They just need to be heard.
That Sunday, Josh helped him rake the yard.
Well, “helped” might have been a generous word.
The boy spent more time leaping into leaf piles than bagging them, but Tom didn’t mind. The kid’s joy was infectious—raw and unfiltered in a way that made Tom’s old bones feel useful again.
Matt stood by the truck, sipping coffee, watching the scene unfold like a man trying to memorize something he didn’t want to forget.
“You always let him play this much?” Matt asked.
Tom leaned on the rake. “Let him be a kid. That’s the job, isn’t it?”
Matt smiled. “Wasn’t sure you believed that.”
“I didn’t. Not when you were his age.”
There was no bitterness in the tone. Just truth.
Matt nodded. “Well… better late than never.”
Tom looked at his son, saw the tired eyes, the worn shirt, the man behind the boy he once failed.
“I was angry a long time,” Tom said quietly.
“So was I.”
“Still am, some days.”
Matt’s jaw tensed. “Me too.”
They stood in the crisp air with nothing between them but shared silence.
Then Josh tossed a handful of leaves skyward and shouted, “This is way better than video games!”
Matt laughed.
And Tom’s heart, weathered and slow, cracked open one more time.
That evening, as the sky turned lavender and the porch light flickered on, Tom pulled out something he hadn’t touched in over a decade.
A small, wooden box with a brass latch. Dusty. Worn.
He opened it with slow, deliberate hands.
Inside: letters, yellowed and brittle. Ranger badges. An old Zippo lighter engraved with TJM on the side. And a photograph—faded but clear.
Lillian. Sitting cross-legged on the porch with Sparky at her side. One hand on the dog’s head. One hand cradling her pregnant belly.
Tom stared at it.
She was maybe twenty-six. Glowing.
He remembered taking that photo. Back when everything felt ahead.
He ran a thumb along the edge.
“Thought I might find you in here,” he whispered.
Behind him, the floorboards creaked.
Josh’s voice: “Who’s that?”
Tom turned the photo gently toward him. “Your grandma.”
“She’s pretty.”
“She was smart too. Braver than me. Had a way of knowing things before they happened.”
Josh peered closer. “Is that Sparky?”
“Sure is.”
Josh reached out, touched the corner of the photo.
“I think he found his way back because of her,” he said. “So you wouldn’t be alone.”
Tom blinked. The boy’s words hung heavy in the air.
“That sounds like something she would’ve planned.”
Josh looked up. “Do you believe in that stuff? Signs?”
Tom hesitated. Then nodded.
“I do now.”
That week, the mailbox became more than just a place for bills and flyers.
Inside it, Tom found small things:
– A blue ribbon tied to a pinecone.
– A photograph of a deer mid-step, likely taken by Josh with the old film camera Matt had dug out from the attic.
– A hand-drawn map of the woods, with “Our Spot” circled in red.
– A note in Matt’s handwriting: “Next weekend. You, me, Josh. One last campout before the snow.”
Tom smiled.
He folded the note and tucked it under the clay deer on the mantle.
Everything that once felt final now felt possible.
The Saturday of the campout, they returned to the cabin.
Tom packed lighter this time. He no longer brought his rifle. Just a walking stick, a flask of black coffee, and Lillian’s flannel rolled tight in his bedroll.
They reached the cabin just before sunset.
Matt set up camp like he used to—efficient, deliberate. Josh ran ahead, clearing leaves off the fire ring and calling dibs on the top bunk inside.
Tom moved slower, but his eyes were alive.
“I forgot how blue the sky gets up here,” he said, tilting his head toward the clearing.
Matt nodded. “City never looks like this.”
That night, they built a fire.
Cooked fish and beans and toasted marshmallows that stuck to their fingers. Josh told a spooky story that made no sense but had both men howling by the end. Matt passed Tom the flask, and Tom passed it back, smiling.
Then they got quiet.
Staring into the flames like they held old truths.
Matt spoke first.
“After you sent the letter, I kept trying to write back. Over and over. Couldn’t get it right.”
“You didn’t need to,” Tom said.
“But I wanted to.”
Tom looked at his son.
“I spent most of my life waiting for someone to say the perfect thing. Turns out, showing up means more.”
Matt blinked.
Tom added, “And I’m glad you did.”
Matt glanced down at the flames, his jaw tightening. “I think she would’ve liked this.”
Tom looked up at the stars. “She’s here.”
Josh’s voice, soft from the cabin doorway: “I think she’s the deer.”
Matt and Tom both turned.
Josh was silhouetted in the orange glow.
He walked over slowly, sat between them.
“She led us to each other,” he said. “Didn’t she?”
Tom reached out, laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“She sure did.”
Later, long after Josh had fallen asleep inside, Matt and Tom stood outside by the embers.
Only a few stars remained. The air had cooled.
Matt looked toward the treeline.
“What if this is the best we get?” he asked.
Tom took a long breath.
“Then we’ve already got more than most.”
Matt turned to him.
Tom added, “We loved. We lost. We tried again.”
Matt nodded. “That’s enough?”
Tom smiled. “It has to be.”
And just as the last ember dimmed, just as the night wrapped them in silence again—
A rustle in the woods.
Both men turned.
The deer stood at the edge of the clearing.
Still.
Watching.
And then, without a sound, it turned and walked into the trees.
Neither man spoke.
They just watched.
Until it disappeared.
And left the woods whole again.
