Three weeks later, he was gone. No warning, no time to prepare — just a phone call that shattered everything. In the days that followed, I drifted through our home like a shadow. His mug still sat on the counter. His jacket hung by the door. And in that drawer, untouched, was the perfume. Each time I saw it, the regret deepened. I’d dismissed something he gave with love, and now I’d never get the chance to tell him how much he meant to me.
It took months before I could begin sorting through his things. One quiet afternoon, I found myself holding the perfume again. My hands trembled. I nearly put it back — but it slipped. The bottle hit the floor with a crack, the cap flying off. As I knelt to retrieve it, I noticed a small folded piece of paper tucked inside the cap. My breath caught.
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