Some were bent from being held. Others had tape marks, evidence they had once been displayed. A few were tucked in plastic sleeves, labeled with delicate handwriting and dates. Every piece treated with care, almost reverence.
I sat on the floor, sifting through the memories. She had treasured what I thought was insignificant. She had protected it, cherished it, even though we had never spoken.
I froze.
“She didn’t trust people,” he added, “but she trusted you.”
I didn’t know whether to cry or whisper an apology into the empty room.
Suddenly, all her little habits came back to me—the way she paused in the hallway like she wanted to speak but didn’t, the quiet ache in her eyes when she watched children play, the way she walked alone to the store and returned with just the basics.
Her silence had always seemed cold. Now it felt like sorrow.
And then I saw it: an envelope, tucked in the box, my name written in soft, looping script. No long letter. No dramatic confession. Just ten words:
“You made life less lonely. Thank you.”
Ten words that broke something open in me.
