The Last Dance
Songs To Stories Volume VII
Inspired by: Holy Ground (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift
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Walter Callahan has lived a long life. Eighty-five years of memories, some sharp and vibrant, others lost in the fog of time. But on a quiet morning in 2025, as he flips through the newspaper with his usual black coffee, his hands tremble over the obituaries. One name makes the world tilt beneath him.
Margaret Dawson.
Maggie.
The woman he once loved with every part of himself. The woman he let slip through his fingers.
It has been sixty years since their last night together, since their final dance in a dimly lit ballroom where her laughter echoed through the air like music itself. Back then, she was his world, but he had been too consumed by another—the stars. Working as an aerospace engineer at NASA during the height of the Space Race, Walt had given his time, his passion, his devotion to the Apollo missions. There was always another late night, another project, another calculation that couldn’t wait. And Maggie, with her warm smile and patient heart, had been left behind—waiting in empty dance halls for a man who never came home in time.
Now, she is gone. And he is left with nothing but memories.
The weight of regret settles over him like a heavy coat as he wanders the streets of their past, retracing the places they once shared. The diner where she always ordered cherry pie. The park where she kissed him in the rain. The club where she’d pull him onto the dance floor, barefoot, laughing, calling him her astronaut even though he never left the ground.
He wonders if she ever forgave him. If she found someone else who danced when she asked, who showed up when it mattered. If she ever thought of him as much as he thought of her.
As dusk falls, Walt finds himself standing outside a grand old ballroom, its doors locked, its windows dark. He presses his palm against the cool glass, closing his eyes, listening—half expecting to hear the distant echoes of her favorite song. He hasn’t danced since the night she left. He hasn’t loved since Maggie.
And then, in the quiet of the evening, with no music, no partner, and no one watching, he takes a step. Then another. And for the first time in sixty years, Walter Callahan sways to the rhythm of a song only he can hear.
Some loves are lost. Some are left behind. But some—some stay holy forever.
Excerpt From The Last Dance By Britt Wolfe
The names always came at the end. He never rushed to get there.
He flipped through the world as it was—headlines about people who would be forgotten, stories about technology he no longer understood, articles that reminded him how far he had drifted from the centre of it all. And then, inevitably, the pages thinned, the ink grew smaller, and a procession of names waited for him.
It hadn’t always been like this. There had been a time when he had skimmed past these pages, uninterested in the names of strangers, in the ceremonial rites of people he had never met. But everything had changed the year he retired. Only a few months after he left NASA, an old friend—Ed Koenig, one of the best engineers he had ever known—had passed away unexpectedly. The obituary had been buried in the back pages, a brief paragraph that barely scratched the surface of the man’s brilliance. It had unsettled Walter in a way he hadn’t anticipated. If Ed—sharp, strong, meticulous Ed—could go so suddenly, so quietly, then what did that mean for the rest of them? Since then, Walter had read the Births, Deaths And Marriages section religiously, as if tracking the names of the lost might prepare him for his own inevitable place among them.
Today, his gaze drifted down the page, the familiar rhythm of names and dates lulling him into complacency—until he saw it.
A woman's name.
His breath caught.
A name that brought memories and regret rushing to the surface, but also feelings of warmth and of perfect togetherness.
Margaret Wilkes.
Walter’s fingers tightened around the paper, his pulse quickening. The name was printed in simple, unassuming typeface, tucked between strangers whose lives he had never touched. But hers—hers had been different.
Margaret Wilkes had been Margaret Dawson when he had known her.
Maggie.
She had been his once. Or perhaps he had been hers. It didn’t matter now. The years had taken what they had and folded it into something distant, something unreachable. But seeing her name here—printed so plainly, so finally—made it feel as though she had just left him all over again.
His eyes skimmed the words, each one heavier than the last:
Margaret Anne Wilkes (née Dawson) passed away peacefully in her sleep on the morning of March 2, 2025, at the age of 84. Margaret was the beloved wife of 62 years to Richard Wilkes and a devoted mother to four daughters: Elizabeth (Daniel) Carter, Julia (Mark) Reynolds, Katherine (Henry) Sullivan, and Abigail (James) Foster. She was a cherished grandmother to eight grandchildren: Eva, Benjamin, Anna, Nathan, Lucy, Evan, Amelia, and Aden. A gifted cellist, she performed with the Houston Symphony for over three decades, filling concert halls with warmth and grace. Beyond the stage, she dedicated herself to the performing arts, serving on the board of numerous charities and advocating for arts education. Even after retiring from the symphony, Margaret remained devoted to sharing the joy of music, offering free lessons to children in her community. She was a woman of kindness, conviction, and unwavering generosity. She will be deeply missed by her family, friends, and the many lives she touched. A memorial service will be held on March 6 at St. Andrews Church, followed by a private burial. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Reading for All Foundation or the Houston Youth Orchestra in her honour.
Walter read it again. And again. As if, by sheer will, he could force new words onto the page. Words that didn’t describe the death of a woman he had so loved, and who he so regretted losing.
But no obituary could capture what she had been.
Not really.
Not to him.
