Part 5: A Long Unburied Grief
Walter’s boots left deep impressions in the untouched snow as he followed Angel through the woods.
The cold bit at his cheeks, but he hardly noticed.
Something inside him—something heavy and bruised—had begun to lift.
Ahead, Angel moved steadily, her white coat almost glowing against the darkness of the trees.
She didn’t look back, but Walter knew she was waiting for him to catch up.
The woods thickened again, the trees pressing close, their branches knotted like the tired fingers of old men.
It was quieter here, the world muffled by heavy snow and the hush of things too old for words.
Walter paused at a fallen log, chest rising and falling heavily.
The familiar ache in his knees flared, but he gritted his teeth and swung one leg over.
He would follow her.
Wherever she led, he would follow.
The path grew narrower, winding between ancient pines.
The air was sharp with the scent of frozen earth and decaying leaves buried deep under the snow.
Somewhere deep in his chest, Walter felt the old pain stirring—
not the ache of age, but the sharper, more savage wound he had carried all his life.
The wound of his brother.
Tommy McKinley.
The boy with the crooked grin and fists always ready to swing.
The brother who had followed Walter into the army, laughing the whole way.
The brother who hadn’t come home.
Angel slowed ahead, her tail wagging gently, as if encouraging him.
Walter swallowed against the knot rising in his throat.
His boots crunched forward.
He hadn’t spoken Tommy’s name aloud in years.
Hadn’t dared visit the grave marker tucked into the veterans’ section of the Boone County Cemetery, its edges worn smooth by weather and time.
Too much guilt.
Too much sorrow.
He should have protected him.
Should have been the one to stand between him and the bullet that tore through that dusty Korean hillside in ’52.
Walter clenched his fists against the cold.
The path opened suddenly into a small clearing.
At its center stood a simple wooden cross, half-buried in snow, the edges rough-hewn and splintering.
There was no name carved into it.
No dates.
Just a cross.
Walter staggered forward, breathless.
He dropped to one knee in the snow before it, the cold biting through denim and flesh.
The cross was old—older than anything he’d expected to find out here.
Older than the memories that clung to the trees like mist.
He bowed his head.
“I’m sorry, Tommy,” he whispered, voice raw.
“I should’ve been there. Should’ve brought you home.”
The words tore out of him, ripping free from a place he hadn’t dared touch in decades.
The wind whistled through the trees, soft and low, almost like a song.
Walter closed his eyes.
For a moment, he swore he could feel Tommy beside him—
a hand clapped on his shoulder, a laugh like summer thunder rolling across a field.
Not blame.
Not anger.
Just the easy forgiveness of a boy who had loved his brother too much to keep score.
Walter let the sobs come, wracking and deep, carving space where guilt had been packed tight for too long.
He knelt there until the tears slowed, until the cold began to creep deeper into his bones.
When he finally lifted his head, the cross stood silent and sure, the snow swirling gently around it.
Angel waited a few feet away, sitting patiently, her breath rising in silver puffs.
Walter rose, every movement slow and aching.
He touched the cross once, lightly, then turned to follow her again.
The woods were different now.
Softer somehow.
More forgiving.
Walter understood then:
Angel hadn’t just led him back to Margaret Jean.
She hadn’t just led him to peace.
She had led him here, to the place where he could lay down his oldest burden.
Where he could stop carrying the dead.
The old man pressed forward through the snow, following the dog deeper into the woods.
The night folded around him, quiet and wide.
Each step lighter than the last.
And behind him, the clearing grew still again, the wooden cross standing sentinel under a sky heavy with stars.
Part 6: The Bridge Between Worlds
The trees thinned again, giving way to a narrow path Walter hadn’t walked since boyhood.
It twisted downhill, slipping between boulders furred with moss, and beyond, he could hear it—
the faint, familiar rush of running water.
Angel trotted ahead, her paws silent over the snow, her white tail flicking like a flag.
Walter followed, boots heavy but spirit lightened, as if each step pulled him closer to something he had long thought lost.
The path leveled out at the bottom of the hill.
There, crossing the frozen creek, was an old wooden footbridge—
rickety, weather-beaten, the planks worn thin by decades of storms and summers.
Walter’s breath caught in his throat.
He knew this bridge.
In the summer of 1942, he and Tommy had raced across it barefoot, daring each other to leap into the creek below.
He remembered Margaret Jean sitting on the far bank, her feet dangling into the water, her sunhat crooked and her laughter ringing through the woods.
The memories crowded so close it hurt.
Angel paused at the foot of the bridge, looking back over her shoulder.
Her eyes glinted in the moonlight, urging him on.
Walter stepped onto the first plank, the wood creaking under his weight.
The creek below was half-frozen, dark water slipping and whispering beneath a fragile skin of ice.
The sound stirred something deep in him, like the ghost of a lullaby his mother once sang in the kitchen while dough rose and the world was young.
He moved carefully, boots slipping slightly, hands outstretched for balance.
Each step across the bridge felt like crossing not just a creek,
but years,
decades,
lifetimes.
Halfway across, Walter stopped.
The snow had let up, and the world held its breath.
Above him, the stars pressed close and bright, as if leaning down to listen.
Walter closed his eyes.
He could almost hear their voices again—
Tommy calling out a dare,
Margaret Jean’s laughter chasing the summer air,
his father’s steady whistle from down the trail.
All the people he had lost.
All the pieces of himself he thought were gone forever.
He opened his eyes and looked across the bridge.
Angel stood waiting on the far side, patient and still.
Behind her, the woods glowed faintly, not with firelight, but with something older—
the deep, quiet magic of home.
Walter took another step, then another.
And with each step, the ache in his chest loosened a little more.
The regrets grew fainter.
The sorrow, lighter.
By the time he reached the far side, he realized he was breathing easier,
like a man waking from a long, heavy dream.
Angel turned and padded into the woods, and Walter followed.
The trail rose gently now, winding through birch trees that gleamed silver under the stars.
Somewhere ahead, he knew, the path would end.
Not in darkness.
Not in fear.
But in something he hadn’t dared believe in for years—
peace.
Walter tucked his chin against the cold and pressed onward, his steps sure, his heart open.
The bridge behind him creaked once, then stilled.
The creek whispered on beneath the ice, carrying the past gently away.
And ahead, the dog led him through the sleeping woods, toward the place where time and sorrow finally let go.
