Margaux read the letter three times, tears dripping onto the paper. She had never wanted to be seen. The anonymity was part of the safety—proof she was giving without expectation.
Then she remembered the second box.
Inside were dozens of children’s drawings, handwritten cards, little paper hearts, crooked stick figures in sweaters and hats, bright crayon suns. Messages written in uneven letters:
“Thank you for my red sweater. It’s my favorite.”
“I wear your hat every day.”
“You make me feel warm.”
“I love you, whoever you are.”
Margaux cried harder, the kind of crying that shakes something loose inside you—grief turning into gratitude, loneliness turning into something softer.
A gentle knock came at the door.
She wiped her face, stood slowly, and opened it.
Manon stood there.
A little older now, a few silver strands in her dark hair, but the same warm eyes, the same gentle steadiness.
“Margaux,” she said softly, tears shining. “There’s something I want you to see.”
