“Six dollars,” she replied.
My heart sank. “I only have five.”
That small kindness nearly undid me. I thanked her through tears, clutching the shoes like treasure. Maybe the day wasn’t such a loss after all.
Later that afternoon, I helped Stan pull them on. He giggled as I tugged them over his socks. They fit perfectly. But then — a faint crackling sound came from inside one of the shoes.
I frowned, slipped it off, and pressed on the insole. The sound came again — crisp and fragile. Curiosity turned to unease as I lifted the liner. Beneath it lay a folded piece of yellowed paper.
It was a letter.
The handwriting was small and shaky, but the words struck like thunder:
“To whoever finds this,
These shoes belonged to my son, Jacob. He was four when cancer took him. My husband left when the bills piled up. I’ve lost everything. I don’t know why I’m keeping his things — maybe because they’re all I have left of him.
If you’re reading this, please remember that he was here. That I was his mom. And that I loved him more than life itself.
— Anna.”
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