“Good morning,” he said.
His voice was careful. Not cold. Careful, like every word cost him something to say.
“I’m here for Thomas,” he continued. “He asked me to deliver this to his wife after his death.”
For a moment, my hands went numb. The hallway seemed to narrow. I felt suddenly aware of my own breathing.
“I…” My voice didn’t want to work. “He’s… he passed away.”
“I know,” the man said quietly.
And that quietness struck me harder than anything else. It sounded like he’d known for a while. Like he’d been carrying this moment in his pocket, waiting for it to arrive.
Behind me, I heard footsteps.
My grandmother’s footsteps, quicker than they’d been all week, moving with a urgency that made my throat tighten.
“Who is it?” she called, her voice sharp with the instinct to face whatever was at the door herself.
I stepped aside.
She came into view wearing her robe, hair pinned back hastily as if she’d woken in the middle of a dream and reached for whatever would make her feel ready for the world. Her face held that tight, controlled expression she’d been wearing since the funeral, like she was bracing herself against being knocked over.
Her eyes landed on the man, and her brows drew together. Confusion flickered across her face, followed by something that looked almost like annoyance at being interrupted.
The man lifted his hands.
In one he held a bouquet. Simple, beautiful. White lilies and pale pink roses wrapped in brown paper, the kind of arrangement my grandfather used to choose when he wanted to say something without finding the exact words.
In the other hand, an envelope.
No return address. No stamp.
Just one name, written in handwriting so familiar it felt like a hand reaching out of the past.
Evelyn.
My grandmother’s hand rose to her mouth, fingers pressed against her lips as if holding something in.
“Thomas…” she whispered.
The man did not step inside. He didn’t offer condolences. He didn’t explain who he was or why he had been asked to do this.
He only said, “He wanted this delivered today. On Saturday.”
Then he placed the flowers and the envelope into my grandmother’s trembling hands, gave a small nod that felt like respect, and turned away.
Before either of us could find words, he was already walking down the steps. The morning light caught the edge of his coat as he moved, and then he was gone.
The door clicked shut.
For a moment the house felt so still I could hear my grandmother’s breath catch in her throat.
She carried the bouquet into the kitchen as if it were something delicate enough to crack. She set it beside the empty vase. Her hands shook so badly the paper crinkled loudly in the silence.
I reached for the vase, steadying it while she set the stems inside. The flowers looked strange and right at the same time, filling the space that had been waiting.
Then her gaze locked onto the envelope.
“I don’t like surprises,” she said softly.
Her voice broke on the last word, as if the sentence had been holding a weight and couldn’t hold it anymore.
“I’m here,” I told her. It was all I had. Four small words that meant I wasn’t going anywhere.
She slid her thumb beneath the flap. Her movements were slow, cautious, like the paper might bite.
She opened it and pulled out a folded letter.
Her eyes moved across the page.
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