It was a small kindness, and I wanted to let it be one.

Michael had always been good at remembering practical details.

He knew which gloves kept my hands warm and which brand of tea settled my stomach.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome.”

He filled the thermos with coffee while I checked the pockets of my coat for tissues.

Behind Linda’s letter, tucked inside a small envelope I had not opened in months, I found a photograph.

A silver-haired man stood in front of a wooden fence, one hand resting on the top rail.