Seventh Inning Stretch

Elena adjusted the battered baseball cap that had been Marcus's—the wool still faintly smelling of him, even after three years. She'd promised herself she'd stop wearing it to games, but here she was, section 214, row 12, seat 7, alone again.

Her iPhone vibrated in her pocket—a work email that could wait. She ignored it, watching the Dodgers warm up below. The crowd noise washed over her, thousands of voices merging into a dull roar that filled the hollow space beside her where Marcus used to sit, shouting at umpires and spilling mustard on his jeans.

"Good seat?" A voice behind her.

Elena turned. A man—maybe fifty, gray at the temples—held out a foam cup of wine. An orange vendor's pass dangled from his neck. His eyes were kind, tired.

"It's perfect," she said. "Marcus loved this section."

The man nodded, sat beside her. A golden retriever pressed against his leg—service dog vest, calm, watchful.

"My wife loved these seats too," he said. "Before."

"Before?"

"The accident. Two years ago." His hand found the dog's head, scratched behind its ears. "Buster here gets me through."

The game started. Elena checked her phone—old photos of Marcus at this exact stadium, grinning, holding her hand, the sun setting behind the scoreboard. Her thumb hovered over delete.

"I keep thinking I'll move on," she said quietly. "But then I wear his hat, and he's here."

"He is," the man said. "Buster can feel him. Look."

The dog had rested his head on Elena's knee, golden eyes fixed on something—someone—in the empty seat beside her.

Elena's throat tightened. She took Marcus's hat off, placed it gently on the empty seat.

"There," she whispered.

The announcer's voice cracked over the PA: *"Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the seventh inning stretch."*

They stood together—Elena, the stranger, the dog—as the crowd roared around them. Above them, the sky burned orange with sunset, and for the first time in three years, the empty space beside her felt full.