“Hannah gave it to me last Thursday.”

“Last Thursday?”

“She made me promise not to give it to you until the time came.”

The strangers remained silent.

The woman looked toward the floor with an expression that was painful to witness, a terrible mixture of concern and hope.

I took the letter.

My daughter’s handwriting crossed the paper just as it had crossed birthday cards, grocery lists, and notes on the refrigerator.

She had always written her capital H too large.