I knelt beside Paul’s grave, my hands trembling. The bag was strangely dry, despite the rain the night before.
I placed my yellow flowers against his headstone and slowly reached for the zipper.
The moment I looked inside, my breath caught.
My knees buckled, and I collapsed beside the grave, overwhelmed by what I had found.
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Inside the bag was a small wooden box, a photograph of Paul and me on our wedding day, and a sealed envelope bearing my name.
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
“Megan, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry I waited so long.”
I recognized the handwriting immediately. It was Paul’s.
The letter explained that he had written it days before the accident but never mailed it. He had hidden it in his desk, where his brother had discovered it years later while clearing out their childhood home.
His brother had finally found the courage to bring it to me.
