Part 7: Echoes in the Hall
The therapy center sat on a quiet stretch of road near Richmond’s southern edge, past the strip malls and warehouses. The sign out front was weathered — Riverbend Recovery & Rehab — and a red wind sock danced from a pole by the entrance like it was waving hello.
John parked beneath a crooked oak tree and sat in the truck a long minute before getting out. He hadn’t worn a uniform in years, but today he’d dug out a clean collared shirt and pressed slacks. He even polished his boots.
In the passenger seat lay a framed photo of Bear — the one from the school visit. He brought it with him like a badge.
Inside, the air smelled like lemon cleaner and brewed coffee.
A young woman at the desk looked up and smiled. “Mr. Mallory, right?”
He nodded.
“We’re so glad you came. The coordinator’s expecting you.”
She led him down a hall with pale green walls and soft yellow lighting. The doors they passed were open — each room revealing a person, a rhythm, a life in slow repair.
When they entered the gathering room, five residents were already seated.
Four men, one woman.
Three in wheelchairs, one with a prosthetic leg, one with trembling hands.
The woman — Miss Shirley, someone whispered — sat knitting quietly, but her eyes watched him like a hawk.
John cleared his throat.
“Hi. I’m John Mallory. I used to be a cop.”
A pause.
“And this,” he said, holding up the photo, “was Bear. My K9 partner for nearly a decade.”
One of the men leaned forward. “German Shepherd?”
“Yup.”
“Knew a Shepherd in Kandahar. Dog saved my life.”
John nodded. “Mine saved a few, too. And maybe saved me when no one else could.”
That broke the air.
The room relaxed.
John walked slowly among them, passing the photo around. Each hand held it carefully, like they understood the weight it carried. And then the stories began — quietly at first, then louder. About dogs. About partners. About nights without sleep and mornings that came too soon.
He listened more than he spoke.
And when they asked if Bear was still with him, John didn’t lie.
“He passed last week.”
The room fell still.
Miss Shirley looked up from her knitting. “He was a good boy, wasn’t he?”
John nodded. “The best.”
He visited again the next week.
And the week after that.
Soon, it became a ritual.
Every Friday morning, he brought a new story, a new picture, sometimes an old leash or Bear’s badge tag. He learned their names. Learned their wounds. Learned which ones remembered and which ones sometimes forgot.
They started calling it “K9 Hour.”
Darlene went with him once, carrying a tray of sugar-free brownies.
“This one’s diabetic,” she whispered, pointing to a man named Elroy. “Like me. Always skips the finger prick if he can get away with it.”
John chuckled. “You two should compare notes.”
“We did,” she said. “Now he listens to me more than his nurse.”
As they left, she touched John’s arm.
“You walk different now,” she said.
He raised a brow. “How’s that?”
“Less like you’re watching a world that moved on without you. More like you’re walking in it again.”
He didn’t answer.
But as they stepped out into the bright morning air, John realized something had shifted.
Not in the world.
In him.
That night, he sat on the porch.
Bear’s rug was still there.
Not as a shrine, but as a reminder.
He sipped his coffee and watched the stars blink on.
No one screamed.
No sirens howled.
No danger came racing down Ashwood Lane.
But still, John Mallory sat alert.
Because some watches never end.
And some bonds never break — not in life, not in silence, and not in death.
