Dave had always lived in a world where everything worked out. Not always perfectly, mind you. Sometimes the turkey burned. Sometimes the dog ate the neighbor's Thanksgiving centerpiece. But things worked out. That was the rhythm of life in their quiet Toronto neighborhood.


So when the news came—when they heard that Stuart had died—there was no script to follow.

It was Morley who read it first. She was scrolling through the CBC news app on her phone, looking for a recipe she’d bookmarked, when the headline stopped her: “Storyteller Stuart McLean Dead at 68.”


She said his name aloud, like she was testing the sound of it in a sentence that shouldn’t exist. “Stuart… died.”


Dave was in the kitchen polishing a record with the hem of his sweater, humming a song that hadn’t been popular since disco fell out of fashion. He froze. “What do you mean?”


Sam came in from the garage. Stephanie stood in the hallway, halfway down the stairs. Murphy, sensing something unspoken pass between them, stopped scratching at the door and lay down.

It was like gravity had shifted in the house. Everything looked the same, but nothing felt right.


“But… we’re still here,” said Sam. “He’s gone, but we’re still here.”


Stephanie tilted her head. “Are we supposed to keep going? Are we… allowed to?”


Nobody answered. The question wasn’t really about permission.


Dave went to the basement. He dug out the old radio—the one he used to listen to the Vinyl Cafe on, back when he thought he was just a character in a story someone else was telling.

And that night, they listened. They sat in the living room, not talking. Stuart’s voice filled the space like old perfume you couldn’t quite place. He was there, and not there.


“He told our stories,” Morley said softly. “He gave us to the world.”


“He made people care about us,” added Stephanie, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

“He gave us Murphy,” said Dave.


Murphy thumped his tail once, then laid his chin on Dave’s foot.

The next morning, Kenny Wong opened the café early. He set out a *** of tea and a plate of oatmeal cookies on the counter. He played nothing but old Vinyl Cafe episodes through the speakers.


Customers came in quietly. Some sat at their usual tables. Some brought flowers. Some just stood near the counter, not ordering anything.


Kenny placed a small framed photo of Stuart beside the cash register. “No charge today,” he said. “Just listen.”

In the back room, Dave stared at the shelves of records. “Do you think he ever planned to end us?” he asked Morley.


“No,” she said. “But he taught us how to go on without him.”


Over the next few days, the house filled with little mementos. Letters from listeners, drawings from children, even a carved wooden figure of Dave in his apron, holding a vinyl record like a waiter holds a tray.


“We’re not just stories anymore,” said Sam. “We’re… real. Somehow.”


“We’ve always been real,” Morley replied. “We just didn’t know it.”


That weekend, Stephanie posted on social media: “My family was created by Stuart McLean. But we are held together by the people who listened. Thank you.”


The post went viral. Thousands of comments. Memories. Tributes. One person wrote, “Your stories were part of our Sunday drives. You feel like family.”


Stephanie read every comment out loud at dinner. “I thought I was just someone’s imaginary big sister,” she said, “but I think I’m more than that now.”


Dave organized a block gathering. Nothing fancy—just a potluck and a boom box playing old episodes. People brought their kids. They shared their favorite Vinyl Cafe moments.


One woman brought a scrapbook of printed transcripts. Another brought a pie recipe she’d copied from “Morley’s Famous Apple Pie” episode.


“I don’t even bake,” she laughed. “But I made this for him.”


That night, after everyone had gone, Morley walked into the backyard and stared at the stars.


“Do you think he knew?” she whispered.


Dave came up behind her and slipped his hand into hers. “He knew.”


In time, things settled into a new rhythm. Kenny renamed the Sunday brunch special “The Stuart Stack”—three pancakes, a side of laughter, and coffee refills forever.

People still asked if there would be new stories. And Dave always said the same thing: “Only the ones we keep telling.”


Because something funny had happened. Without meaning to, they had become real. Not because they were on the radio. But because they mattered to someone.


Because somewhere, in a car, or a cottage, or a kitchen, someone had laughed with them. And maybe even cried with them.


Stuart had written them into the world. But the listeners—you—kept them there.

So now, every time Dave walks through the Vinyl Cafe, or Murphy chases his tail, or Morley burns another casserole, they remember. They remember the man who gave them breath and made them beloved.

And when they tell their stories—because they still do—they begin, not with “Welcome to the Vinyl Cafe,” but with something deeper: “Thank you, Stuart."