He held it out toward Daniel. “Six months after my transplant, the donor network forwarded a letter to me,” Noah whispered. “It was an anonymous note from the donor’s father, placed in her file before the funeral. They redacted the names, but… I kept it. I read it every single day while I was learning how to walk again.” Daniel took the plastic sleeve with numb, trembling fingers.
He unfolded the paper. Written in his own handwriting, written eighteen months ago during the darkest, most agonizing night of his life, sitting in a quiet room at the funeral home, were the words he thought he had forgotten: