He asked me to marry before he died; a year after his funeral, his little girl handed me a box and whispered, “Now you will understand.”

I thought the worst day of my life was already behind me.

Then a six-year-old girl put a box in my hands, and inside was the only thing she had for years thought lost forever.

Part One: The Rabbit Who Never Came Home

Several years ago, my husband, Mark, and my five-year-old daughter, Josie, died in a  accident car on a two-lane road outside the village.

There was something about that day that tormented me.

Josie had a stuffed rabbit named Mr. Bunny. It was gray and soft, with a crooked ear and a faded pink nose. I was going everywhere with her. If Josie was somewhere, Mr. Bunny was there, too.

After the accident, a nurse handed me a bag with Josie’s belongings. His shoes. Your supbritter. A sticker from your swimming class.

But there was no Mr. Bunny.

I called the police and the vehicle depot. Weeks later, I even searched the road in the rain.

Nothing.