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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.
“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.
