Part 4: The Harmonica and the Hollow
Spring 1978 – McCall, Alabama
The sock dropped to the sanctuary floor with a soft thud.
Inside, the harmonica glinted like a buried memory, dulled by years but unmistakable in its shape. The Trotter family had searched for it after Clarence died—turned over drawers, opened old cigar boxes, even combed the yard by lantern light.
It had never turned up.
Until now.
Carried in by a dog no one could explain.
Preacher Myron bent down, carefully lifted the sock.
Held it out like a holy thing.
“Where on earth did you find this, boy?” he murmured.
Mercy just wagged his tail and turned three slow circles before curling back into his usual place on the pew.
Elsie ran her fingers over the harmonica, tears welling. “Mama… this really is Grandpa’s.”
Jewel nodded. Her hands trembled. “He used to play it every night when you were still in a crib. That one hymn…”
Elsie smiled through her tears. “The one where Scout howled.”
That evening, long after the church emptied, Elsie and Jewel stayed behind.
Jewel held the harmonica like it might vanish again if she blinked.
“Your granddaddy played it on our first date,” she whispered. “Sat on the porch swing and fumbled through ‘In the Garden’ until I laughed myself sick.”
Elsie brushed Mercy’s ears. “Do you think he left it on purpose?”
Jewel’s voice cracked. “No. I think he just… dropped it when he fell in the yard that day. We didn’t see. Too much going on. But Mercy—he found it. Like it was meant for you.”
By Wednesday, people stopped calling Mercy a stray.
They called him ours.
He slept at the church most nights now, and by day he’d wander the town like a postman of memory—appearing on porches, sitting by front steps, waiting outside stores as if checking on those who needed reminding.
Mrs. Thelma swore he spent a whole morning under her birdbath, staring at her late husband’s rocking chair on the porch.
Earl Mathers said he saw Mercy standing still on the edge of the cornfield, nose to the wind like Clarence used to do when a storm was coming.
And on Friday, Mercy sat by the post office for an hour, then led the postman down to the creek—where they found an elderly woman who’d collapsed during her walk.
No one questioned his place after that.
But Elsie started noticing something else.
Mercy was slowing.
He still came each Sunday, still curled on the last pew like a living hymnbook, but his coat had dulled some. His gait stiffened. Sometimes, he whimpered in his sleep.
And twice now, he’d turned his head sharply toward the back of the sanctuary, like he’d heard a voice no one else could hear.
That Sunday, Preacher Myron paused mid-sermon.
He closed his Bible.
Stepped away from the pulpit.
“I had a message written this morning,” he said, “but the Lord’s been pulling me in another direction. Something about second chances. About unfinished business.”
He looked down the aisle.
“About how even those who leave us… don’t always leave us empty.”
The congregation turned toward the pew.
Mercy was watching him.
Eyes bright, ears lifted.
As if listening for a note he remembered.
After the service, Elsie sat beside Mercy and gently placed the harmonica beside his paw.
“You can keep it,” she said softly. “Or bring it where it’s needed next.”
Mercy placed his chin over it.
Closed his eyes.
And sighed.
A long, deep breath.
The kind Grandpa used to take after a good song.
That night, a storm rolled through McCall—sharp winds, heavy rain, the kind that rattled windows and left puddles in the fields.
Elsie couldn’t sleep.
She wrapped herself in a quilt and stood by the window, watching the trees sway and the power lines hum.
And through the sheets of rain—
There he was.
Mercy.
Standing under the lamplight by the church gate.
Soaked, still, and staring straight at her window.
Something clenched in her chest.
She rushed to the door, calling his name into the wind.
But by the time she reached the steps, he was gone.
Not a paw print left in the mud.
Only the harmonica.
Dry.
Sitting at the threshold like a blessing.
