I visited my husband’s grave on the fifth anniversary of his death and found a black bag on it — my knees buckled when I opened it.

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.