Later that night, after our son was asleep and the house was quiet, I opened the box again. The necklace shimmered faintly under the bedside lamp.
Turning it over in my hand, I noticed something etched on the back: L.T.
My heart skipped. Could it be a coincidence? Somehow, I knew it wasn’t.
I searched the box more carefully. At the bottom was a letter, folded neatly into thirds, my name written across the front in her unmistakable sharp handwriting.
I hesitated, then unfolded it.
“If you’re reading this, I am gone,” the letter began. “And if you’ve found the courage to open this, it means I finally found mine. I was wrong about you.”
My breath caught. She wasn’t the apologizing type.
She continued:
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