Three Weeks Later
That night turned out to be our last celebration together. Three weeks later, he was gone — taken by an unexpected heart attack that no one saw coming.
The days that followed blurred together — the funeral, the condolences, the quiet of a house that no longer echoed with his laughter. I couldn’t bear to touch his things. The watch I’d given him sat on his nightstand, frozen in time.
I wasn’t angry about the perfume anymore — I was angry at myself for letting disappointment overshadow the love he’d always shown in quieter ways.
The Day I Found the Note
This morning, I decided to clean our room. Dusting the shelves, I found that forgotten bottle of perfume. I picked it up, and before I knew it, it slipped from my hand and fell to the floor.
The cap popped off. A small piece of folded paper slid out.
For a moment, I just stared at it, heart pounding. Then I knelt down and opened it carefully.
Inside was his handwriting — familiar, steady, and full of warmth.
“I know this perfume is temporary, but next month I’ll surprise you with the necklace you’ve been dreaming about. Thank you for believing in me, even when I don’t say it enough. You are my forever gift.”
The words blurred as tears filled my eyes. I sank to the floor, clutching that note and the perfume to my chest.
He hadn’t been careless. He hadn’t been thoughtless. He had been saving for something special — something he never got the chance to give.
