Driving home, Ellen’s thoughts tangled between fear and yearning. The gentle and deliberate handwriting on the note wouldn’t leave her mind. Whoever wrote it seemed to know the right words, as if they’d once stood beside her in the same pain. But she couldn’t remember anyone who ever had.
That night, she sat in Sam’s room again, fingers trailing over his toys, books, and the pillow he once hugged to sleep. The note lay on her lap, edges slightly damp from the morning dew. It felt alive somehow, carrying traces of both grief and gratitude.