I had worn that shirt under my coat every morning since the funeral, washing it only when the smell of woodsmoke faded from the collar.

I sat on the cold concrete edge of the plot and rolled the rubber bands off the box.

Inside were a brass key, two rolls of quarters, a school photo of a young girl, and three folded pages of yellow legal paper covered in Paul’s handwriting.

The photo showed a girl with dark hair and a chipped front tooth, wearing a red sweater against a mottled blue studio backdrop.

She looked about eight or nine, with no name on the white border.

I wondered who the girl in the photograph was.

I unfolded the yellow paper, my thumb smoothing the creases where Paul had pressed them flat with his palm.

“If the heart trouble takes me before the fall, the savings account in New Kensington has five thousand left,” the first page read.

“Lily will need her winter coat and her dental work.

Make sure Rebecca gets the cashier’s check on the first of every month, exactly like we agreed.”

I turned the sheet over looking for an explanation, but the second page started with a calendar of payments going back eleven years.

At the bottom of the list, Paul had written one line in ink: October fourteenth, my Lily turned eleven.

My breath came fast through my nose, cold and thin.

Paul had never once said the name Lily in all our fourteen years together, not over dinner, not in the truck, not ever.