I frowned, slipped it off, and pressed on the insole. The sound came again — crisp and fragile. Curiosity turned to unease as I lifted the liner. Beneath it lay a folded piece of yellowed paper.
It was a letter.
“To whoever finds this,
These shoes belonged to my son, Jacob. He was four when cancer took him. My husband left when the bills piled up. I’ve lost everything. I don’t know why I’m keeping his things — maybe because they’re all I have left of him.
If you’re reading this, please remember that he was here. That I was his mom. And that I loved him more than life itself.
— Anna.”
By the time I reached the end, my hands were trembling. I could barely breathe. Stan tugged on my sleeve and asked, “Mommy, why are you crying?” I told him it was “just dust,” but inside, my heart was shattering for a woman I’d never met — a mother who had lost everything.
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