Part 6: The Empty Porch
It was the first morning in twelve years that John woke up alone.
No paws padding across the floor.
No clink of the collar against the water bowl.
No deep sigh at the foot of the bed.
Just silence.
He sat up slowly. The air in the room felt heavier somehow — as if Bear’s presence had left a space behind, not just a silence but a hollow. Like furniture removed from a room you’d grown around.
He shuffled to the kitchen and poured one mug of coffee instead of two. Out of habit, he opened the back door to let Bear out — then paused, hand still on the knob.
The yard was damp. A soft mist clung to the fence. The grave under the tree looked undisturbed, but not untouched.
John stepped outside.
There, on the stone marker he’d placed just yesterday, someone had left a folded American flag. Neatly pressed. Clean. No note.
He didn’t know who had done it.
But he knew why.
Later that day, Darlene brought over some chicken salad and a stack of mail.
“You haven’t checked your box in three days,” she said, gently setting it on the table.
“I forgot,” John replied.
“You forget a lot lately.”
He nodded but said nothing.
Darlene sat down beside him. “I went by the pharmacy. Adjusted my insulin again.”
“You feeling okay?”
“Not really,” she admitted. “But I’m still here.”
He looked at her closely. “Still fighting?”
“Still fighting.”
There was a long pause.
Then she said, “You know what I miss?”
“What?”
“The sound of his nails on the floor. That click-click when he came around the corner. Like a metronome.”
John swallowed. “I hear it in my head sometimes.”
“Me too.”
She reached out and touched his hand. He didn’t pull away.
“We should do something,” she said.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something that keeps him close. But also keeps you moving.”
“I’m too old to start over.”
“No,” she said firmly. “You’re just too sad to believe you can.”
That night, John sat on the porch again.
He left Bear’s rug where it had always been. Couldn’t bear to move it yet. The wind had picked up, carrying with it the smell of jasmine and cut grass. In the shadows, he thought he saw Bear’s shape once — lying there, watching the sidewalk like always.
He didn’t turn on the radio.
Didn’t need it.
Memories filled the silence.
He remembered the time Bear had jumped in front of a blade during a domestic dispute. The time they’d searched a collapsed building for survivors. The time Bear had refused to leave the side of a fallen officer, even after the ambulance came.
Every image sharp. Still bright. Still alive.
John blinked hard.
Then he stood, went inside, and pulled out an old photo album from the shelf.
The leather was cracked, but the pictures were safe.
He flipped through them — some faded, some sharp. All of them real.
There was one photo that stopped him.
Bear, sitting beside a child in a wheelchair at a school event.
Both of them looking straight at the camera. Both of them smiling.
John traced the edge of the picture.
Maybe Darlene was right.
Maybe there was still something to give.
He called her the next morning.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said.
“You sound different,” she replied.
“Maybe I am.”
He took a breath. “There’s a place on the south side — rehab center for vets. Someone mentioned it once. They do dog therapy. Visits, mostly. Sit with the residents, just be there.”
“You want to volunteer?”
“No,” he said. “I want to listen.”
She paused.
“You’ll bring stories?”
“Yeah. And pictures. And maybe… maybe I’ll listen to theirs too.”
Darlene exhaled slowly. “He’d like that, you know.”
“I think so too.”
Outside, the wind moved through the trees again.
But this time, it didn’t sound empty.
It sounded like a door opening.
