I looked down at the box in my hands.

“There’s something inside that might help you someday,” she said. “But not yet. You’re not ready yet, and neither is Harold.”

Her grip tightened around my wrist. “When the time comes—when he shows you exactly who he is—you’ll know what to do.

I wanted to ask her what she meant. I wanted to know what was inside, why she’d chosen me, and what she thought would happen.

But she changed the subject. She started talking about the weather, her garden, the book she was reading.

Eighteen months later, she was gone. It was pancreatic cancer. I held her hand in the hospice room, the only family member at her bedside.