“I never got to tell you how lucky I was,” the letter read. “You made ordinary days feel like something worth remembering. If I had one more day, I’d spend it holding your hand.”
Tears blurred the words. I pressed the letter against my chest and sobbed, five years of grief pouring out of me.
At the bottom of the box was Paul’s wedding ring.
I slipped it into my palm, remembering the warmth of his hand around mine.
For the first time in years, I whispered, “I miss you, but I’m going to be okay.”
I stayed until the afternoon sun touched his headstone. Then I placed the yellow flowers beside it, held the letter close, and walked back to my car.
I hadn’t found a way to bring Paul home.
But somehow, that day, a piece of him had found its way back to me.
