Part 9 – “What Stayed Behind”
The next Wednesday, the bell above the clinic door rang like it always had—but something in the sound felt hollow. As if even it understood that the one it used to greet was gone.
Margaret still came.
No Junebug in her arms this time. Just the visitor log pressed close to her chest, a little worn at the corners, pages now nearly full.
The front desk staff didn’t speak—just nodded gently, as if words would crack the fragile stillness the room had settled into.
The heater hummed. The chairs creaked. A lizard in a shoebox blinked once. And the waiting began again.
But it wasn’t the same.
Danny arrived with his mother, holding a small envelope with Margaret’s name on it. Inside was a drawing—Junebug with her eyes closed, floating in a starry sky. Her blanket had become wings. Around her, the other animals hovered in soft orbits, like she was their moon.
He had written, in block letters:
“Thank you for waiting. You can rest now.”
Margaret folded it into the back cover of the journal.
“She waited for all of us,” she said quietly. “But someone always has to take the next turn.”
Danny looked up. “Do you think… someone else will wait now?”
Margaret didn’t answer. She just looked down at the old towel on the bench—the same one they’d kept folded for Junebug. And then she reached into her coat and unfolded a smaller towel.
Inside was a dog collar.
Yellow. Faded. Frayed.
She placed it gently on the bench.
“She’s still here,” Margaret said. “Just not how we expect.”
Milo was quieter now. No more profanities. No wisecracks. But his presence still filled the room. He hopped to the bench and sat beside the collar, head bowed, feathers fluffed.
Doris whispered, “He hasn’t done that for any animal. Ever.”
Margaret smiled. “She made a believer out of all of us.”
That afternoon, someone new entered.
A middle-aged man with a trembling puppy tucked inside his jacket. The dog was a scruffy thing, all ribs and wide eyes.
“First visit,” he said nervously. “They said to wait here.”
He looked around, uncertain where to sit.
Danny pointed to the empty corner bench.
“You can sit there,” he said. “That’s the best seat.”
The man hesitated. “Wasn’t that… someone’s spot?”
Margaret looked up.
“It still is,” she said. “But Junebug would’ve shared.”
So the man sat, and the puppy sniffed the towel, then curled up on it without fear. The collar stayed beside them, quiet as a blessing.
Before she left that day, Margaret opened the visitor log one last time and added a final page.
March 31 – Her body stopped. But not her presence. Junebug taught us to wait, to listen, to sit still with each other’s fear and stay anyway. We thought she was fading. But really, she was planting something.
She closed the cover.
Then stood.
Then walked out into spring air that finally felt like spring.
Continue Reading Part 10 – “The Warmest Seat”
