Part 8 – “The Final Story”
Margaret didn’t read from the notebook this time. She didn’t need to. Instead, she spoke from memory—low, steady, the way you read a lullaby to someone who already knows the ending.
“You came to me after the flood,” she whispered.
Junebug didn’t stir, but Margaret saw the slow rhythm of her breath hitch, just once.
“I was tired. Grieving. I’d buried Henry the week before—thirty-two years of marriage, and all I could think about was the sound of the coffee pot dripping too loud in an empty house.”
She smiled, eyes damp. “Then I heard something scratching at the back porch. I thought you were a possum.”
Outside, snow tapped against the window, like a metronome counting down a final movement.
“You were soaked, mud-caked, shaking like a leaf someone forgot to rake. You looked right at me and didn’t flinch. Just waited. Like you’d already decided I was yours.”
Junebug’s chest rose again. Barely. But it rose.
“I named you Junebug because you came in June and never stopped clinging to me. I thought I was rescuing you. But you—you knew I was the one drowning.”
Margaret paused, swallowing hard. Her hand cradled Junebug’s back gently, feeling the frail rise and fall.
“Do you remember the time we watched the thunderstorm together? You climbed up on the couch, shaking, and pressed your face against my knee. You weren’t afraid. You just wanted to be close. And I thought—maybe that’s all anyone really wants. To be near someone who stays.”
The room was still. Even the heater seemed to hush itself.
Margaret leaned closer.
“And now, sweetheart… you’ve waited for everyone. You carried our memories. Our grief. Our joys. You’ve held space for the lost and the leaving. But if you need to rest now—truly rest—it’s okay.”
Junebug’s paw gave the smallest twitch. Her tail didn’t move. Her eyes stayed closed.
Margaret whispered, “You’ve done enough.”
Moments passed.
Then something unexpected happened.
Danny reappeared in the doorway. No coat, no mittens. Just the wooden carving in his hands.
“I think… she’s waiting for the last goodbye,” he said.
Margaret opened her arm, and the boy slipped beside her.
He laid the little figure on Junebug’s side and said softly, “Thank you for staying. You helped me be less afraid.”
Then, he kissed her nose.
That was when Junebug opened her eyes one final time—just a sliver, just enough to see. And then, slowly, they closed.
No shudder.
No sound.
Just stillness.
Margaret felt the absence instantly. Like a candle had gone out in a room full of memories. She rested her hand gently on Junebug’s side, now unmoving beneath the blanket.
“She’s gone,” she said quietly.
Danny leaned against her shoulder. “No,” he said. “She’s just not waiting anymore.”
Dr. Sorenson entered a moment later. He didn’t ask. He simply knelt, checked her gently, and nodded.
“She chose her time,” he said.
Margaret looked down at the dog who had outwaited pain, winter, silence, and every hard goodbye.
“I hope she knew,” she murmured. “How much she mattered.”
“She knew,” Sorenson said. “She taught half the town how to sit still with grief.”
That evening, before Margaret left, she tucked the wooden carving and the visitor log into her bag. She folded the blanket with shaking hands, kissed Junebug’s forehead, and whispered, “Carry it all well, baby girl.”
Outside, the snow had stopped.
Continue Reading Part 9 – “What Stayed Behind”
