Terry wasn’t just any raccoon—he was the raccoon of the twelfth floor. His little Halloween bear costume, always a bit too big for his small frame, made him look more comical than menacing. He roamed the hallways with the grace of a cat and the curiosity of, well, a raccoon, and in his own way, he was the unofficial mascot of the twelfth floor.

When he’d first arrived—alongside his original owner, Ethel—no one had known quite what to make of him. He was a scruffy little thing, crying in a garbage can outside as Ethel was moving in. She’d found him with teary eyes and a belly that rumbled with hunger. With a soft heart and an even softer crochet bag, she scooped him up and took him in, promising him a life of warmth, treats, and endless naps.

But that had been years ago, and Ethel was no longer with him. At least, not in the way she used to be. Some said she still haunted the twelfth floor—her presence lingering in the air, felt in the quiet moments. A faint scent of mothballs and lavender would sometimes drift through the halls, like a whisper of the past.

Terry, ever the faithful companion, never left. He roamed only the twelfth floor, as if he, too, could feel her spirit watching over him, making sure he was never too lonely.

"Don't go too far, dear," Ethel’s voice would murmur in his mind, soft as a passing breeze. "The kids will need you soon enough."

And sure enough, they did.

On any given afternoon, Terry could be found escorting Claire, a little girl with big, curious eyes and an even bigger fear of heights, to and from the elevator. She was new to the building, her family having moved into Ethel’s old unit. Terry would stand loyally by her side, nudging her gently when the elevator doors opened as if to say, You’ve got this. And when she stepped out, he would wait, his little paws padding softly on the floor until she returned.

"Don't worry, I won’t let anything happen to you," his bright black eyes seemed to assure her. Claire would giggle, still nervous but trusting him all the same. As a reward, she would offer him a cookie—one of her homemade treats. But Terry wasn’t doing it for the cookie. He was doing it because Ethel had asked him to.

And she had. Whenever uncertainty crept in, Ethel’s voice would float into his mind. "You know, Terry, you’re not just any raccoon. You’re my baby, and you have a job now. Make sure she’s safe. Make sure she laughs."

Terry took this responsibility seriously. Maybe a little too seriously. He had his moments of mischief—like the time he unrolled every single roll of toilet paper in the hallway just because he could—but he always managed to stay in Claire’s good graces. After all, who could resist his adorably confused look as he sat, paws tucked beneath his belly, staring up with wide, innocent eyes?

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Then, one evening, everything changed.

Terry had been preoccupied with ear scratches from a generous resident when Claire stepped off the elevator—alone. A huge grin lit up her face as she ran straight to him, dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around his small frame.

"I did it!" she announced breathlessly. "I rode the elevator by myself!"

Terry let out a happy chirp, his way of saying, Way to go! He was so proud of her.

With Claire no longer needing him, Terry turned his attention to the next resident in need—a quiet, slim fellow named Anthony. Anthony rarely left his apartment, and Terry quickly realized he wasn’t eating much either. So, with careful patience, Terry trained him.

Every day, he would scratch at Anthony’s door until the man let him in. Then, he would sit at the table like a good boy, waiting for food to be placed in front of him. But Terry wouldn’t eat—not unless Anthony ate, too. It became their routine. One meal, then another. Slowly but surely, Terry had Anthony eating three times a day. And as his health improved, so did his spirit. He started leaving his apartment more often, greeting neighbors in the hall.

Word of Terry’s quiet acts of kindness spread, and before long, he had gained a reputation as the twelfth floor’s little guardian angel. Residents adored him, and with their blessing, the building’s maintenance crew installed small pet doors on every unit down the hall—Terry’s own private entrances. No more waiting for someone to open a door. No more wandering for an open window. He was free to visit and care for his people as he pleased.

Claire was there when the first door was installed, watching in awe as Terry trotted over, his tiny collar jingling with every step. He paused at the flap, looking up at her with a silent question.

"You want to try it?" she asked with a smile.

Terry blinked up at her, then gently nudged the door open with his nose. It creaked as he stepped through, his fluffy tail swishing behind him. He turned back to Claire, eyes bright with approval.

Somewhere in the stillness, Ethel’s presence flickered—soft, warm, proud.

Terry could still feel her, faint as a whisper. And then, just as naturally as she had arrived, she moved on.

Her work was done.

Claire would look after him now.

That evening, Terry curled up in Claire’s lap as she sat on the couch, a fresh batch of cookies in hand. He nibbled on one—an exact replica of the ones Ethel used to give him.

For the first time in a long while, he felt completely at peace.

Ethel was gone, but her love would never leave him.

He was home.