📦 Part 3: The Shoe Tree and the Long Goodbye
The next morning broke slow and gold, the kind of dawn that doesn’t rush you. I poured two cups of coffee—one for me, one for the thermos—and watched Murphy stretch in the doorway, his back legs trembling just slightly from yesterday’s walk.
“You ready, old boy?” I asked.
He gave a low groan, then rose with a tail wag and the determination only an old dog knows.
I stepped outside and there was Nora, already waiting, bundled in a quilted coat too big for her frame. Her cheeks were pink, her breath rising in tiny clouds. She wore walking shoes—worn, but dependable.
“Didn’t think you’d really come,” I said.
“I didn’t either,” she replied. “But it felt like the right thing.”
Murphy trotted over and gave her a slow sniff, his way of saying I remember.
We started west, past the cluster of maple trees that still dropped leaves like forgotten promises, and onto Baynard Street, where the houses were set farther apart and silence hung between them like drying laundry.
“You lived here long?” Nora asked.
I nodded. “Fifty-two years. Married Evelyn in the spring of ‘71. Bought the house that fall.”
She hesitated. “Do you… miss her?”
I didn’t answer right away. Murphy’s nails clicked softly on the pavement. A crow cawed from the power line above.
“Every day,” I said at last. “Even in the silence. Especially in the silence.”
Nora nodded, but said nothing. Her eyes stayed on the road ahead.
We came to a turn in the sidewalk and I pointed toward an old oak tree just off the curb. Dozens of shoes hung from its branches—baby shoes, work boots, high-tops with broken laces. Some pairs, some singles.
Nora blinked. “What on earth…?”
“That’s the Shoe Tree,” I said. “Started back in ‘85 when Mikey Blanchard graduated high school and threw his gym shoes up there in celebration. Then others followed.”
Murphy sniffed the base of the tree, then circled it like he was checking in with ghosts.
“One time,” I said, “a kid asked if each pair marked a soul that left Elkhollow. I kind of liked that idea. Like the town saying goodbye in its own way.”
Nora tilted her head, eyes softening. “Did you put any up?”
I smiled. “Evelyn’s gardening shoes. The green ones. Third branch on the left.”
She found them easily. Still stained with soil, still tied together like a prayer.
We stood under the tree for a long time.
Nora finally said, “I left Chicago last month. I was… married. Not anymore.”
I didn’t press. People talk when they’re ready. And sometimes silence says more than words ever could.
Murphy nudged her hand with his nose. She looked down and rubbed between his ears.
“I didn’t plan on staying here,” she added. “But something about this place… it’s like it’s waiting.”
“Elkhollow does that,” I said. “Holds room for people who aren’t sure where else to go.”
We kept walking.
Two blocks down, we passed a narrow house with a wrought-iron gate and a porch swing that hadn’t moved in years.
“Mrs. Li lived there,” I said. “She used to paint birds. All kinds. Left them in her mailbox for me. Said they were good luck.”
I reached into my satchel and pulled out one of her drawings—a cardinal, delicately watercolored, edges yellowed with age. I had kept it in a drawer for years. Today, I left it taped to her gate.
“She died?” Nora asked.
“Peacefully,” I said. “Last winter. Her niece came from Seattle and took her ashes back. But I figured she wouldn’t mind one more bird visiting the porch.”
We crossed to Auburn Street where the trees met above us like an archway in an old cathedral. The wind pushed through, whispering in tones only the aging know.
“You used to walk this route every day?” Nora asked.
“Without fail,” I said. “Christmas Day. Thunderstorms. I knew every cracked step, every kid’s birthday, every dog’s bark.”
She glanced at Murphy. “And he came the whole time?”
“Ever since he was six months old,” I said. “I found him abandoned near the dump behind the post office. Someone had left him in a cardboard box with a sock and a Bible verse.”
Nora gasped. “A Bible verse?”
I nodded. “‘The righteous care for the needs of their animals.’ Proverbs 12:10.”
She put a hand to her chest.
“Maybe,” I added, “they left him hoping someone righteous would find him.”
She looked down at Murphy, then back at me. “They did.”
At the end of Auburn Street, we came to a small bridge over an empty creek. Murphy always stopped there, even in the old days. He liked to look over the side, ears forward, as if expecting the water to return.
We leaned on the railing. Leaves swirled below like memories that never quite settled.
“I think I’d like to keep walking with you,” Nora said softly. “If that’s okay.”
I smiled. “We don’t move fast. But we don’t miss much, either.”
“I’m tired of rushing,” she said. “I’ve missed enough.”
Murphy barked once—sharp and sure.
Then we walked on, side by side, three shadows stretching long down the street.
I didn’t know it yet, but the old route had new purpose now.
And somewhere ahead, something was waiting to be found.
📦 Part 4: The Red Mailbox
The wind was brisk that morning, humming low through the pines that lined Sparrow Avenue. Murphy led, nose low to the ground, following some invisible thread from the past, while Nora and I matched his pace—slow, deliberate.
We hadn’t said much since setting off. Some mornings start with silence, and I’ve learned not to fill it too quickly. Nora walked with her hands in her coat pockets, eyes flicking to porches and windows like she was looking for stories tucked between curtains.
We reached the red mailbox.
It stood crooked now, its pole slightly rotted at the base. But it still bore the name: Greer—the kind of hand-painted lettering people used before vinyl stencils and digital labels took over.
“This house here,” I said, nodding toward the faded clapboard walls, “belonged to Marcus Greer. Retired Navy man. Lived alone. Played trumpet at night.”
“Trumpet?” Nora asked, surprised.
“Every evening after dinner. Always the same song—‘Stardust.’ Played it slow, like a lullaby to the whole block. Folks complained at first. But then… well, it became part of the town’s rhythm.”
Murphy sniffed the base of the mailbox, then sat down like he remembered the music too.
“He passed in 2017,” I continued. “I delivered his final pension check. That was the last thing I ever placed in this box.”
Nora knelt beside Murphy, brushing leaves from his fur.
“You remember the sound?” she whispered.
Murphy gave a soft whine.
I reached into my satchel and pulled out a small envelope. Inside was a note, and a copy of a cassette tape Evelyn and I had recorded one Christmas—the sound of Marcus’s trumpet drifting across the snowy night, faint and haunting.
I placed it carefully inside the box.
“What made you start doing this?” Nora asked. “Leaving notes, gifts… memories?”
I thought for a moment.
“When you walk the same roads long enough,” I said, “the people become part of the pavement. You can’t just forget them. This is how I remember. How I say thank you.”
She didn’t speak. Just nodded and looked at the house until her breath fogged the air.
Down the block, we reached a small white bungalow where a red tricycle still rested near the porch. I paused.
“The Doyles,” I said quietly. “Three boys. One with freckles like cinnamon, always barefoot. Their mother made the best lemonade I ever had. She’d leave a cup for me in summer, wrapped in a paper towel to keep the bees away.”
I smiled at the thought, but my chest ached too.
“The youngest, Caleb, used to ask Murphy riddles. Never stopped to wait for an answer, just told the punchline and ran off laughing.”
Nora laughed gently. “What kind of riddles?”
I grinned. “Silly ones. ‘Why don’t skeletons fight each other?’” I paused, waited. “Because they don’t have the guts.”
She chuckled, and even Murphy gave a single bark, tail wagging.
We moved on.
At Elm and Thatcher, we reached the corner store—Tilly’s Market, though the sign was now weathered and the windows dusty. A CLOSED sign hung permanently on the door.
“She used to slip me peanut butter crackers when she thought no one was looking,” I said.
Nora raised an eyebrow. “Was that allowed?”
“Not exactly,” I smiled. “But Tilly said feeding the mailman was good for business karma.”
Murphy scratched at the door briefly, then lay down as if waiting for a familiar voice.
I placed a box of crackers beside the door. Still sealed. Still fresh.
Then I stood back and whispered, “Thank you, Tilly.”
As we turned to leave, a voice called out from behind us.
“Hey!”
We turned.
A young man with a broom stepped out from a nearby hardware store. He had thick black curls and paint on his overalls.
“You Harold Conley?”
“I am.”
“My grandma talks about you. Said you used to bring her cherry drops from the candy aisle every Thursday.”
“That sounds like me,” I said, grinning.
He walked over, shook my hand. “Name’s Martin. I’m fixing up the store. Thinking of reopening next spring.”
“You bring back the cherry drops, and I might just walk a few more miles to visit.”
He laughed. “Deal.”
As he walked away, I turned to Nora.
“You see? The town remembers too.”
We made one final stop before heading home: the bench under the willow tree at Maple Park. It had been Evelyn’s favorite spot. We used to sit there after long routes. Murphy would nap in the grass while we watched the wind play with the leaves.
The bench was damp, but I sat anyway. Nora hesitated, then joined me.
“I think this town is what I needed,” she said after a while.
“You’ll find pieces of yourself here,” I said. “The quiet helps you listen.”
She looked at me, then at Murphy, now dozing between our feet.
“He’s slowing down,” she said softly.
I nodded, the words catching in my throat. “We both are.”
Silence settled between us again—not heavy, just honest.
After a while, I reached for my journal and wrote:
“Day two. Three miles. Laughter and tears. A trumpet, a riddle, a cherry drop memory. Murphy still walks.”
Then we stood, stretched, and made our way home.
The road felt familiar. But not tired.
Somehow, it felt like it was just beginning.
